LIIUUMIIOWIM 


atiSfc 


W$t  TLibvaxv 

0(tl)C 

SJnibersrttpcf  JSortf)  Carolina 


;<>•» 

&*^    «***> 
W  ^ 

^ 


Cnbotoeti  bj>  ®fje  Bmlecttc 


anb 


^Jjilantfjroptc  H>orietteg 


extension  Btbteicm 
908.5 
WAq      -ft-al    c^1_ 


Digitized  by  the  Internet  Archive 

in  2012  with  funding  from 

University  of  North  Carolina  at  Chapel  Hill 


http://archive.org/details/dialectselection21phel 


Werner's 

Readings  and  Recitation: 

No.  21 


COMPILED    AND    ARRANGED   BY 


PAULINE  PHELPS 


NEW  YORK 
EDGAR  S.  WERNER  &  COMPANY 

Copyright,  1S99,  by  Edgar  S.  Werner  Publishing  &  Supply  Co. 


CONTENTS. 

PAGE 

Account  of  a  Negro  Sermon— John  B.  Gough 131 

"  Along  the  Line." — Irwin  Russell 31 

Annie  O'Brien.— Mary  Kyle  Dallas 17 

At  Aunty's  House. — James  Whitcomb  Riley 190 

Aunt  Hannah's  Letter— Elsie  Malone  McCollum 173 

Average  Boy. — Pauline  Phelps 119 

Bide  a  Wee,  and  Dinna  Fret 99 

Bimi. — Rudyard    Kipling    166 

Born  Inventor. — Harry  Stillwell  Edwards 96 

Brudder  Jones's  Heterodoxy  75 

Cabin  Philosophy   64 

Caller  Herrin'  127 

Casey's  Little  Boy. — Nixon  Waterman  90 

"  Ceptin'  Jim." — Lewis  R.  Clement 42 

Demon  Lover  57 

"  Didn't  Think  o'  Losin'  Him." — Frank  L.  Stanton 41 

Don't. — Nixon  Waterman 84 

Fair  Helen  172 

Firetown's  New  Schoolhouse. — Pauline  Phelps 77 

Foreign  Views  of  the  Statue. — Fred  Emerson  Brooks 47 

Frontier  Picture. — Edward   Singer   188 

Fulfilment 89 

Getting  to  Be  a  Man. — S.  E.  Kiser Ill 

Hard  Times    54 

Heart  of  Old  Hickory. — Will  Allen  Dromgoole 156 

He  Wanted  to  Know.— S.  W.   Foss 22 

I  Kissed  the  Cook 40 

Italian's  Account  of  George  Washington 162 

Italian's  View  on  the  Labor  Question. — Joe  Kerr 23 

"It   War   Crackit   Afore."— Gath    Brittle 81 

"  Jest  A-Thinkin'  o'  You." — Ella  Higginson 154 

Jim   Bludso.— John   Hay 100 

Jim  Lord's  Cat. — Edward  Byron  Nicholson 70 

Jim's  Story. — H.  S.  Tomer 38 

Jolly    Brick.— Pauline    Phelps 86 

Leading  the  Choir. — Edith  M.  Norris 112 

Little  Mabel  at  Long  Branch 37 

Lumber  Camp  Romance. — Harriet  Francene  Crocker 43 

Mass'  Crawford,  Isam,  and  the  Deer. — Harry  Stillwell  Edwards  122 

[3] 

Werner's    Headings   No.    21. 


4  CONTENTS.  page 

Miss  Maloney  Goes  to  the  Dentist 55 

.Miss  Witchazel  and  Mr.  Thistlepod. — Robert  J.  Burdette 49 

My  Pa.— Marion  Short  186 

No  Science  for  Him 136 

No  Telephone  in  Heaven 171 

Old  Boys  in  the  Dance. — Frank  L.  Stanton 189 

Old  Darky's  Defense 109 

Ole  Pine  Box. — Frank  L.  Stanton 95 

Oor  Wee  Laddie. — William  Lyle 39 

Orthod-ox  Team. — Fred  Emerson  Brooks 164 

Over  the  Divide. — Marion  Manville 178 

"  Pardnership." — Eleanor  Kirk    73 

Playing  Entertainment. — Anna  Hopper   52 

Ponchus  Pilnt. — James  Whitcomb  Riley 191 

Rise  up  Early  in  de  Mawnin' — Paul  Laurence  Dunbar 182 

"  Scallywag." — Caroline  B.  Le  Row 134 

"  Sence  Sally's  Been  to  Europe." — Herbert  Laight 183 

Sent  Back  by  the  Angels. — Frederick  Langbridge 139 

"  Settin'  Up  with  Elder  McK'ag's  Peggy." — Henry  Christopher 

McCook   '. 144 

Sheriff  of  Cerro  Gordo. — Fred  Emerson  Brooks 91 

Sod  House  in  Heaven.^-Harry  E.  Mills 65 

Sons  of  the  Widow. — Rudyard  Kipling 83 

Stickit  Minister.— S.  R.  Crockett 115 

Story  of  Hard  Times. — Pauline  Phelps 7 

Story  of  the  Yorkshire  Coast 60 

Telling   Tales. — Ana   Barnard    85 

Thae  Auld  Laird's  Secret. — Mrs.  Findley  Braden 15 

Thankful  Soul. — Frank  L.  Stanton 25 

That  Fire  at  the  Nolans'  128 

That  Settled   It   185 

This  is  April.— Frank  L.  Stanton 184 

Through  the  Flood. — Ian  Maclaren  26 

Tildy. — Frederick   W.   Loring .  53 

Tired  Old  Woman  82 

Tommy  Brown. — L.   C.   Hardy 176 

Uncle  Isrul's  Call. — Caroline  H.  Stanley 102 

Watermelon  Season. — E.   N.  Baldwin 114 

Wen  Ma's  Away. — John  Tracy  Jones 188 

What  Dooley  Says. — Findlay  Peter  Dunne 68 

When  Jim  Was  Dead. — Frank  L.  Stanton 184 

When  the  Teacher  Gets  Cross 133 

Young  America  137 

Werner's    Readings   No.    21. 


INDEX  TO  AUTHORS. 


PAGE 

Baldwin,   E.   N 114 

Barnard,  Ana 85 

Braden,  Mrs.  Findley 15 

Brittle,  Gath   ' 81 

Brooks,   Fred   Emerson 47,  91,  164 

Burdette,  Robert  J 49 

Clement,  Lewis  R 42 

Crocker,  Harriet  Francene  43 

Crockett,  S.  R 115 

Dallas,  Mary  Kyle  17 

Dromgoole,  Will  Allen       156 

Dunbar,  Paul  Laurence   182 

Dunne,    Findlay   Peter    68 

Edwards,  Harry  Stillwell       96,  122 

Foss,  S.  W 22 

Gough,  John  B 131 

Hardy,  L.  C 176 

Hay,  John   100 

Higginson,  Ella       154 

Hopper,  Anna    52 

Jones,  John  Tracy 188 

Kerr,  Joe    , 23 

Kipling,  Rudyard  83,  166 

Kirk,  Eleanor  73 

Kiser,  S.  E Ill 

Laight,  Herbert  183 

Langbridge,  Frederick   139 

Le  Row,  Caroline  B 134 

Loring,  Frederick  W 53 

Lyle,  William  39 

Maclaren,  Ian 26 

Manville,   Marion    178 

McCollum,  Elsie  Malone 173 

McCook,  Henry  Christopher  144 

Mills,    Harry    E 65 

Werner's    Readings   No.    21. 

[5] 


6  INDEX  TO  AUTHORS. 

PAGE 

Nicholson,  Edward  Byron    '. 70 

N orris,  Edith  M 112 

Phelps,    Pauline    7,  77,  86,  119 

Riley,  James  Whitcomb    190,  191 

Russell,    Irwin    31 

Short,    Marion    186 

Singer,  Edward   188 

Stanley,  Caroline  H 102 

Stanton,  Frank  L 25,  41,  95,  184,  184,  189 

Tomer,  H.  S 38 

Waterman  Nixon 84,  90 


"Werner's    Readings   No.    21. 


Werners 
Readings    and    Recitations 

No.  21 


A  STORY  OF  HARD  TIMES. 


PAULINE  PHELPS. 


[From  the  Independent  by  permission  of  the  publishers.] 

OF  course,  ye  read  about  it  in  the  papers,  sir ;  an'  may 
be  ye've  imagined  how  the  workin'  class  felt  about 
the  hard  times ;  but  I  tell  ye,  there  can't  no  imaginin'  nor 
newspapers  nor  hearsay — nothin'  but  jest  havin'  been  there 
yerself  can  make  ye  realize  the  feelin'  that  comes  over  a  man 
when  he  walks  up  to  git  his  Saturday  night  pay,  an'  in  the 
envelope  is  a  slip  sayin'  the  force  must  be  cut  down  an'  he 
won't  be  needed  there  any  more. 

It  don't  so  much  matter  if  he's  alone  in  the  world,  but  it 
generally  happens  he  ain't.  An'  when  I  read  that  slip,  the 
first  thing  I  thought  wa'n't  about  gittin'  another  place,  or 
bein'  disappointed  myself,  but  the  way  my  wife  would  look 
when  I  broke  the  news  to  her.      There  was  the  little  girl,  too. 

I  tell  ye,  sir,  I  never  had  many  chances,  an'  my  wife's 
education  ain't  much  to  boast  of,  either ;  but  we  talked  it 
over  between  us,  an'  made  up  our  minds  our  Nell  should 
have  a  show,  go  through  the  high  school  an'  through  college, 
too,  if  she  wanted,  an'  keep  on  jest  as  long  as  we  was  able  to 
work  for  her. 

"Never  mind,"  says  my  wife.  "You  ought  to  git  an- 
other place,  an'  if  ye  don't,  the  shops  will  start  up  in  a  week 
or  two,  an'  a  little  vacation  will  do  ye  good." 


8  WERNER'S  READINGS 

I  wa'n't  so  sure  about  the  shops  startin'  up,  but  I'd  al- 
ways held  that  a  strong,  able-bodied  man,  that  kep'  away 
from  rum,  could  find  work  somewhere;  an'  the  next  Mon- 
day mornin'  I  started  out  to  look  for  it.  I  tried  the  machine- 
shops  first.  They  was  all  runnin'  short,  an'  some  of  them 
jest  laughed  when  I  asked  for  a  job. 

"  Ye're  the  seventh  that's  been  here  this  mornin',"  one 
boss  said.  ' '  What  do  ye  suppose  we  want  of  you  when  we 
can't  keep  our  own  hands  employed?" 

Times  was  hard,  I  knew,  an'  that  wa'n't  much  more  than 
I  expected;  but  I  hadn't  reckoned  on  gittin'  the  same  an- 
swer at  every  other  place.  I  wa'n't  particular  after  a  while. 
I  tried  them  all, — grocery  stores  an'  butcher  shops  an'  ex- 
pressman's an'  wood  yards.  An'  every  time  I  come  home 
my  wife  would  ask,  meanin'  to  make  her  voice  sound  as  if 
she  wa'n't  much  concerned  :  "  Well,  did  ye  find  any  work 
to-day?"  An'  I'd  answer,  cheerful  as  I  could,  because  of 
little  Nell  takin '  in  every  word : 

"No,  didn't  seem  to  git  along  very  well  to-day.  Presume, 
likely,  I'll  strike  soinethin'  to-morrow." 

But  the  next  day  things  would  go  on  jest  the  same,  an'  I  be- 
gun to  feel  discouraged.  We  hadn't  much  laid  by.  I'd  taken 
out  a  three-thousand-dollar  life-insurance,  in  case  anvthino- 
should  happen ;  but  when  times  arc  prosperous  folks  git  into 
the  notion  of  thinkin'  they're  goin'  to  continue  that  way,  an' 
spendin'  the  money  as  it  comes.  An'  there  was  the  rent  to 
pay,  the  same  as  if  I  was  to  work.  An'  the  grocer  sent  in 
word  he'd  got  to  have  the  cash  hereafter.  I  pawned  my 
watch — a  silver  one,  but  it  brought  a  little — an'  the  ring  I 
gave  my  wife  once  for  her  birthday,  an'  a  locket  of  little 
Nell's.  An'  one  night  ye  might  have  seen  me  sneakin'  out 
of  the  back  door  with  my  winter  overcoat  done  up  in  a 
bundle ;  an'  another  time  it  was  my  wife's  silk  dress,  an' 
then  the  rug  from  the  parlor.  Always  at  night,  though ; 
for,  however  poor  a  man  gits,  it  hurts  his  pride  to  have  his 
neighbors  know  he  hain't  had  foresight  to  provide  for  a  day 
like  this. 

Ye  remember  that  hot  spell  we  had  the  last  part  of  July? 


AND  RECITATIONS  No.  SI.  9 

I  come  home  one  of  them  days  when  I'd  been  lookin'  for 
work,  to  find  Nell  lyin'  on  the  sof y  with  hardly  strength  to 
raise  her  head ;  an'  then  my  wife  let  on  she'd  been  sort  of 
ailin'  fur  a  week  or  two,  but  made  her  promise  not  to  tell, 
because  papa  would  want  to  get  her  a  doctor,  an'  she  was 
sure  he  couldn't  afford  it.  There  was  jest  two  dollars  in  my 
pocket,  but  she  had  that  doctor  in  less  than  half  an  hour. 
He  laughed  an'  told  her  he  guessed  she'd  been  play  in'  too 
hard,  an'  a  little  medicine  would  make  her  all  right;  but 
when  he  got  me  out  in  the  hall  he  sobered  down. 

"I  find  considerable  trouble  with  the  heart,"  says  he; 
"no  settled  disease,  but  she  seems  much  run  down.  Has  she 
been  frcttin'  over  anything?     Anything  on  her  mind?" 

I  told  him  I  was  out  of  work,  an'  I  pcrsumed  she  was 
botberin'  about  that. 

"Oh,  yes;  she  sees  you  lookin'  gloomy,  I  suppose,  an'  it 
reacts  on  her.  Now  I  am  goin'  to  speak  plainly  with  }'e. 
Cheerfulness  is  one  thing  yer  daughter  must  have.  Send  her 
into  the  country  for  a  month;  or,  if  ye  can't  afford  to  do 
that,  keep  her  from  frcttin'  about  things  she  can  no*,  help. 
As  for  the  hard  times,  most  people  are  worry  in'  themselves 
unnecessarily.  Business  will  be  in  full  swing  again  by  the 
middle  of  October.      Good  day." 

I  stood  there  an'  looked  after  him,  an'  wondered  rrhat  dif- 
ference it  would  make  what  happened  by  the  middle  of  Oc- 
tober, if  a  man  couldn't  see  his  way  clear  to  liviu'  through 
August. 

I  went  down  to  look  for  work  again  that  afternoon.  I 
tried  the  barrooms  this  time,  an'  the  livery-staMes,  an'  tried 
to  get  a  job  sweepin'  streets;  an'  when  all  that  failed,  I  sat 
down  on  a  curbstone  an'  looked  at  the  people  ridin'  by  in 
their  carriages,  an'  wondered  if  'twas  the  wsj  the  Lord  in- 
tended it,  that  some  should  have  everything  an'  others  noth- 
in' ;  an'  almost  scared  myself  with  the  curse-0  that  kep'  com- 
in'  into  my  mind,  when  I  thought  how  eapy  it  would  have 
been  for  them  to  help  me — an'  they  wouldn't. 

About  four  o'clock,  as  I  was  slouchin'  along  the  street,  I 
heard  the  fire-bell   ring-;     an'    the  next  minute  the  engines 


10  WERNER'S  READINGS 

come  puffin'  through  the  street.  There  was  a  crowd  of  boys, 
an'  women  with  shawls  over  their  heads,  an'  men ;  an'  I  fol- 
lowed with  the  rest.  The  fire  was  in  a  barn,  an'  by  the  time 
the  engines  got  there  the  downstairs  was  a  solid  mass  of 
smoke.  I  asked  a  man  if  the  horses  were  all  out,  an'  when 
he  said  "Yes,"  stood  an'  watched  the  firemen  fix  on  the 
hose.  Jest  as  the  water  begun  to  play,  a  woman  standin' 
near  give  a  cry. 

"Oh,"  says  she,  "see  that  little  dog  lookin'  out  of  the 
Avindow  !      There,  upstairs!  " 

He  was  a  little  yellow,  half-starved  thing,  an'  he  stood  an' 
pawed  at  the  glass  as  if  he  knew  his  only  chance  was  to  break 
it  an'  jump. 

"  It's  jest  a  stray  dog,"  says  a  hostler.  "  Followed  some- 
body up  there,  I  s'pose,  an'  got  the  door  shut  on  him.  Poor 
duffer!  " 

A  girl  about  as  big  as  jSTell  commenced  to  cry. 

"  Oh,"  she  says,  "  can't  somebody  git  'im  out?  The  fire 
hasn't  caught  in  that  room  at  all  yet.  See  'im  look!  He's 
thinkin'  some  of  us  could  run  up  an'  unfasten  the  door,  only 
we  won't.      Please,  mister,  can't  you — ?  " 

An'  I  started.  It  might  have  been  jest  her  say  in'  it,  but 
it  seemed  to  me  that  dog  had  the  same  thought  in  his  mind  as 
I'd  had  when  I  sit  an'  watched  the  people  go  by  in  their 
carriages.  In  gen'ral,  I'm  an  every-day,  common-sense  man, 
an'  hold  a  man's  life,  with  a  wife  an'  child  dependin'  onliim, 
too  precious  to  be  risked  for  the  suke  of  a  mongrel  yellow  dog. 
But  jest  for  that  minute  it  seemed  the  little  critter  had  a  soul, 
like  folks;  an'  I  took  one  long  breath  an'  started  in  to  save 
it.  The  smoke  was  so  thick  I  couldn't  see  the  stairs.  I 
stumbled  over  'em,  an'  then  climbed  up  on  my  hands  an' 
knees;  an'  when  I  got  to  the  top  I  remember  thinkin'  I 
wouldn't  ever  live  to  git  back.  But  it  was  a  little  clearer  in 
the  room  where  the  dog  was,  an'  as  soon  as  I  opened  the  door 
the  little  thing  seemed  to  know  what  I  come  for,  an'  give  a 
run  rio-ht  into  my  arms.  I  broke  a  winder  with  my  fist  an' 
got  a  taste  of  fresh  air,  an'  then  started  back,  a-gropin'  my 
way  down  the  stairs,  blind  an'    dizzy  an'  gaspin',  an'  'most 


AND  RECITATIONS  No.  21.  11 

givin'  up  at  the  last,  till  I  felt  a  breath  not  quite  so  thick 
with  smoke,  an'  knew  the  door  was  close  by. 

A  few  of  the  men  raised  a  cheer  as  I  come  out,  but  the 
biggest  part  of  the  crowd  didn't  pay  much  attention ;  an' 
when  the  lire  died  down  they  went  away,  an'  left  me  sittin' 
on  a  pile  of  blankets  that  had  been  thrown  out;  for  I'd 
breathed  so  much  smoke  it  made  me  feel  queer. 

After  a  while  I  heard  someone  speak,  an'  looked  up. 
There  was  a  fleshy,  good-lookin'  man  standin'  by  me. 

"Well,5'  says  he,  "ye  come  mighty  near  gcttin'  caught 
in  that  buildin',  my  man.  Do  ye  save  dogs  for  fun  or  from 
a  sense  of  duty  ?  ' ' 

I  told  him  that  I  wa'n't  fond  of  seein'  animals  suffer,  if  I 
could  prevent  it. 

"Well,  I'm  not,  either,"  says  he,  "but  I  didn't  think  I 
could  prevent  it.  Ye  look  played  out.  Anything  I  can  do 
for  y e  ?  " 

An'  then,  of  course,  I  asked  him  for  work.  I'd  said  the 
words  so  often  they  rolled  off  from  my  tongue  like  somethin' 
I'd  learned  by  heart.  But  I  knew  from  the  start  I  wouldn't 
git  anything  from  him,  an'  I  had  a  queer  feelin'  as  if  I'd  never 
say  them  again,  either. 

"  No,"  he  said,  "  I  don't  believe  we  can  take  ye.  One 
of  our  men  was  taken  sick  a  day  or  two  ago,  but  we've  de- 
cided we  can  git  along  without  hirin'  till  he's  better.  Ever 
worked  in  a  grocery  store?  " 

I  told  him,  "No;  I  was  brought  up  on  a  farm.  Late  years 
I've  worked  in  a  shop." 

"Oh,  yes,  one  of  Colton's  hands.  There's  been  two  or 
three  around  lately ;  but  ye  see  we  should  want  a  man  who 
understood  the  business,  an'  I've  made  up  my  mind  to  git 
along  without  extry  help  for  a  time,  anyway.  I'm  sorry  I 
haven't  anything  for  ye.  It  can't  be  very  pleasant  to  be 
turned  out  of  a  job  through  no  fault  of  yer  own." 

He  was  nice  enough,  ye  see ;  an'  folks  will  tell  ye  how 
much  good  a  sympathetic  word  does.  But  I  watched  hiin 
walkin'  away,  an'  felt  as  if  I'd  got  to  the  end  of  my  rope, — 
nothin'  to  fall  back  on  now,  but  that  life-insurance  policy.   It 


12  WERNER'S  READINGS 

give  me  a  creepy  feelin'  at  first,  when  my  thoughts  kep' 
strayin'  around  to  that ;  but  after  a  little  the  idea  was  sort  of 
pleasant  to  me.  May  be  my  wife  would  feel  worse  at  first 
about  her  husban's  dyin'  than  she  would  about  bein'  on  the 
town  books  as  a  pauper ;  but  there  wouldn't  be  anything  to  be 
ashamed  of  in  the  first  kind  of  grief.  An'  when  my  little 
Nell  grew  up,  her  dad  havin'  made  a  misstep  one  night  an' 
fell  into  the  river  wouldn't  be  nothin'  for  people  to  find  out 
an'  fling  in  her  face. 

I  sit  there  with  my  head  in  my  hands,  thinkin',  till  the 
clock  struck  six.  I  had  it  all  decided  then,  an'  I  got  up  an' 
started  for  home.  It  wa'n't  till  I  opened  the  door  at  the  foot 
of  our  stairs  that  I  felt  somethin'  snuffin'  at  my  heels,  an' 
saw  the  little  dog  I  saved  from  the  fire  had  followed  me.  I 
picked  him  up  in  my  arms,  an'  opened  the  sittin'-room  door 
with  a  rush. 

"  Any  news?  "  asks  my  wife,  all  in  a  tremble,  comin'  out 
to  meet  me. 

"News!  I  should  think  so !  "  I  yelled,  flinging  up  my 
hat.  "Why,  Nell,  yer  dad's  a  hero!  Saved  a  dog's  life! 
Cheers  an'  applause  !  Asked  to  call  around  to-morrow  an' 
see  about  a  job  !      Good  times  ahead  !      Hurrah  !  ' ' 

It  wa'n't  very  well  done.  I  never  had  much  practice  in 
lies ;  ye  see,  but  Nell  brightened  up  in  a  minute.  She  made 
me  sit  over  on  the  sofy  by  her,  an'  tell  her  all  about  the  fire, 
an'  how  the  little  doggy  looked,  an'  what  the  man  I  was 
goin'  to  work  for  said ;  an'  I  told  her  not  to  bother  her  little 
head  with  notions.  The  matter  wa'n't  decided  yet,  but  the 
next  day  I'd  tell  her  all  about  it.  An'  when  I  asked  about 
supper,  an'  my  wife  said  the  butter  was  all  out,  an'  she 
hadn't  bought  any  meat  that  day,  I  commenced  to  laugh,  an' 
kep'  it  up  so  long  she  got  frightened  an'  thought  I  was  losin' 
my  mind.  But  somethin'  I  saw  in  her  face  quieted  me. 
When — that — happened  the  next  day,  I  couldn't  have  my 
wife  always  thinkin'  I  acted  strange  the  last  night,  an'  won- 
derin'  if  I  did  it  on  purpose. 

I  pushed  my  chair  back  from  the  tabje. 

"  Come  now,"  I  says,  "  let's  all  take  a  ride  on  the  elec- 


AND  RECITATIONS  No.  21.  13 

trie  cars.     We've  been  mopin'  long  enough;   a  little  outin' 
will  be  good  for  us.      Ye'd  like  to  go,  Nellie,  wouldn't  ye?" 

"  Oh,  yes,"  says  she,  as  pleased  as  if  I'd  offered  her  a  for- 
tune, "an'  I'll  take  the  dog.  lie's  so  little  I  can  hold  him 
right  in  my  lap,  an'  the  carman  won't  see  him.  Can't  I  take 
the  dog,  papa  ?  ' ' 

I  told  her  "  Yes,"  an'  we  started.  Two  women  got  on  the 
crossin'  after  we  did,  I  remember,  an'  we  all  shoved  along  to 
make  room. 

' '  See  how  full  the  car  is, ' '  says  one,  ' '  an'  mostly  workin' 
people.  I  was  sure  the  reports  of  the  sufferin'  among  them 
were  exaggerated." 

She  was  holdin'  a  long,  knit  purse,  an'  the  thought  come 
into  my  mind  to  snatch  it  away  from  her  an'  run.  For  a 
minute  I  had  to  grip  my  hands  together ;  then  I  remembered 
the  steppin'  off  the  bridge  would  be  surer,  may  be,  an'  there 
couldn't  nobody  call  that  a  disgrace.  An'  all  the  while  I 
was  thinkin'  it  over  I  was  talkin'  with  Nell,  tell  in'  about  the 
way  I  used  to  do  on  a  farm:  How  I  drove  the  cows,  an' 
plowed,  an'  raked  the  hay.  The  air  blew  cool  in  her  face, 
an'  sent  a  pink  flush  there.  On  the  way  back  my  wife  roused 
up  a  little,  too,  an'  commenced  to  talk  of  the  times  when  we 
went  to  school  together,  an'  what  everybody  said  an'  did. 
An'  I  laughed  an'  joked  as  if  I  hadn't  a  care  in  the  world. 
But  when  we  got  to  the  house  I  helped  'em  off,  an'  then 
stepped  back  onto  the  car. 

"  I'm  a  little  nervous  to-night,"  says  I.  "  Guess  I'll  ride 
up  here  a  ways,  an'  then  walk  back  to  quiet  me. ' ' 

My  wife  looked  queer. 

"Never  mind,  Jack,"  says  she.  "  Something  will  hap- 
pen," an'  I  see  it  all  hadn't  deceived  her  any. 

As  the  cars  started  someone  touched  me  on  the  shoulder. 
It  was  the  man  who  had  talked  with  me  that  afternoon. 

"Thought  I'd  seen  ye  before,"  says  he,  "but  I  couldn't 
think  who  it  was  till  I  noticed  the  dog.    Found  a  place  yet  ?  " 

I  said:    "  No,  an'  don't  expert  to." 

"Say,  I  was  thinkin',  after  ye'd  gone,  that  I  didn't  know 
what  was  the  use  of  us  doin'  all  that  extry  work  while  the 
clerk  was  sick,  as  long  as  there  was  plenty  anxious  to  take  it 


14  WERNER'S  READINGS 

off  our  hands.  Now  ye'renew  to  the  business,  an',  of  course, 
I  can't  pay  fancy  prices.  But  if  ye  want  to  come  an'  try  it 
for  a  while — probably  till  the  shops  open — it's  only  seven 
dollars  a  week,  but — " 

I  turned  round,  then,  an'  caught  hold  of  his  hand.  I  told 
him  what  he  said  had  saved  my  life — an'  then  felt  ashamed 
of  myself  for  saying  it. 

"Oh,  ye'd  found  a  place  somewhere, "  says  he.  "That 
yer  little  girl  ye  had  with  ye  ?  She  don't  look  very  strong. 
Ought  to  send  her  out  into  the  country  for  a  while." 

"  "We'd  been  plannin'  on  it,"  I  said,  "  but  the  hard  times 
had  stepped  in  to  prevent. ' ' 

The  cars  come  to  the  terminus  then,  an'  we  got  off. 

"Well,  good  night,"  says  he.  "I  suppose  I'll  see  ye  at  six 
to-morrow — 527  Main,  the  place  is."  An'  then  he  added,  a 
little  as  if  he  was  ashamed  of  it :  "If  yer  girl  wants  country 
air,  there's  my  brother's  folks  live  down  Sconset  way — big 
farm,  plenty  of  milk,  lots  of  children.  My  Jennie's  goin' 
down  next  week.  One  more  won't  make  any  difference. 
Ye'd  better  plan  it  so  yer  little  girl  can  go  along  with  her,  an' 
they'll  have  all  the  better  fun —  Why,  hang  it  all,  what  ails 
ye?  Come,  I  say,  don't  do  that;  brace  up  an'  be  a  man!  " 
for  when  I  tried  to  thank  him  there  was  a  lump  in  my  throat 
that  choked  me,  an'  I  jest  stood  there,  with  the  tears  runnin' 
down  my  face. 

I've  been  thinkin'  a  good  deal  about  it  since;  an'  it  sort  of 
seems — though  I  ain't  a  preachin'  man  nor  a  perfersor  of  re- 
ligion— as  if  some  trouble  was  jest  sent  to  show  what  poor, 
niiser'ble  failures  of  livin'  we'd  make  if  there  wa'n't  nobody 
to  oversee  us.  There  I  was,  gropin'  away  by  myself  for 
weeks,  growin'  more  an'  more  desprit  every  day,  an'  plannin' 
to  git  out  of  the  world ;  an'  all  the  time  the  Lord  was  seein' 
to  ev'rything,  even  to  our  goin'  to  ride  an'  takin'  jes  that  car. 

There's  a  story  how  our  shops  start  up  next  month,  an'  the 
country's  seen  the  worst  of  it.  But  what  I  started  to  say, 
an'  what  I  believe,  sir,  is  that  there  can't  none  of  them 
writers  nor  editors  nor  folks  that  are  fond  of  givin'  advice  tell 
how  the  workin'  men  feel  over  the  hard  times  unless  they've 
been  through  it  themselves. 


AND  RECITATIONS  No.  21.  15 


THAE  AULD  LAIRD'S  SECRET. 


MES.     FIND  LEY    BKADEN. 

HERE  their  portraits  hang  together — 
Glide  Laird  Mar  an'  Jean,  his  wife; 
Side  by  side,  below  thae  heather, 

Were  they  laid  at  close  o'  life.    .    . 
Yet  for  lang  years  were  they  pairtit, 
She  wa'  drooned  wi'in  thae  burn; 
Lie  jurist  lived  on,  broken-heartit, 
Till  thae  death-king's  late  return. 

'Tis  a  tale  o'  jealous  passion, 

Handid  doon  frae  sire  to  son, 
Aften  told  i'  awesonie  fashion, 

Since  that  night's  dark  deed  wa'  done. 
Geld  thae  gude  laird  had  i'  plenty, 

Juist  a  shepherd's  lass  wa'  Jean. 
When  they  wedded  she  wa'  twenty, 

Bonnie  as  Charlotte,  thae  queen. 

An'  love  came  wi'  gracious  blessings, 

Daily  linking  hearts  an'  ban's, 
Dearer  gude  Laird  Mar's  caressings 

Than  his  bra'  boose,  geld  an'  lan's. 


Frae  thae  Lowlands  Jock,  thae  shepherd, 
Jean's  am  fayther,  hameless,  cam' — 

Spotted  wi'  sin  like  a  leopard, 
Noo  sair  sickit,  puir  an'  lam'. 

Aften  she  wud  gang  to  meet  him, 
I'  the  gloaming  by  thae  burn, 

There  wi'  tender  kiss  wud  greet  him — 
His  unworth  she  couldna  spurn. 

Ance  Laird  Mar  fair  spied  them  standing, 


36  WERNER'S  READINGS 

She  wi'  breclit  head  on  his  breast; 
Love,  hate,  jealousy,  a'  banding, 

Brought  his  sair  heart  mooch  onrest. 

When  Jock  left  her,  he  oupbraided. 

' '  Thou  art  false  !  ' '  \va'  his  fierce  cry, 
Anger  a'  his  faith  owershaded — 

"  Thou  art  false,  an'  thou  shalt  die  !  " 
A'  i'  vain  puir  Jean  ontreated, 

Quick  he  flung  her  i'  thae  burn. 
"  She  maun-  die  !  "  he  aft  repeated. 

"  If  she  lived,  I  wud  but  spurn!  " 

Then  awa'  he  madly  hurried, 

While  the  water  hid  her  face ; 
By  nae  shame-thochts  wa'  he  worried, 

He  cud  see  but  Jean's  disgrace. 
A'  too  late  he  knew  her  faithful, 

An'  he  rued  by  her  low  grave. 
Aft  she  cam'  back',  white  an'  wraithful; 

Mony  a  fright  the  puir  laird  gave. 

Forty  year  an'  mair  he  sorrowed, 

Aye,  it  wa'  but  death  i'  life, 
Wi'  sma'  pleasure  to  be  borrowed, 

Alway  thinkin  o'  his  wife. 
Fu'  weel  wa'  his  secret  hidden, 

But  it  f  rcttid  juist  the  same, 
An'  by  nane  wa'  ho  e'er  chidden, 

Keeping  grip  o'  his  gude  name. 

At  his  death  he  left  confession, 

How  puir  Jean  died  by  his  hand, 
An'  the  laird's  kin  took  possession 

O'  his  bra'  hoose,  geld  an'  land. 
Juist  two  mounds  among  the  heather 

Left  to  prove  thae  tale  to-day. 
Here  their  portraits  hang  together ; 

Aberdeen  haulds  their  puir  clay  ! 


AND  RECITATIONS  No.  21.  17 


ANNIE  O'BRIEN. 


MARY  KYLE  DALLAS. 

THE  Connaught  Castle  had  arrived  in  New  York.  The 
cabin  passengers  had  gone  ashore.  The  steerage  people 
were  being  carried  away  by  their  friends  or  by  the  boarding- 
house  keepers  who  always  he  in  wait  for  them.  Those  yet 
uncalled  for  sat  about  the  decks.  Wistful  eyes  turned  shore- 
ward, anxious  to  see  a  familiar  face  and  form  among  all  those 
strange  ones. 

Pat  Nolan  had.  come  aboard  in  all  his  bravery — a  new  blue 
coat  flung  open,  that  it  might  not  conceal  tlie  shining  watch- 
chain  dangling  from  his  vest  pocket,  his  hat  tipped  to  one 
side,  and  his  boots  for  once  polished  by  an  "  Eyetalian. " 
Didn't  he  come  aboard  to  bring  his  sweetheart  home,  and 
wasn't  she  the  "  purtiest  "  girl  in  ten  counties,  and  hadn't 
she  crossed  the  ocean  for  his  sake? 

Pat  felt  as  though  everyone  who  saw  him  must  know  his 
business  there. 

"  Sure  an'  wouldn't  she  be  as  anxious  to  mate  him  as  he 
would  be  to  mate  her?" 

But  strange  to  say  he  could  not  see  her.  He  was  a  little 
late,  for  there  had  been  a  delay  of  the  train  in  which  he  came 
down.  But  surely  Annie  would  never  have  gone  ashore 
without  him.  He  walked  about  for  full  ten  minutes,  look- 
ing everywhere,  but  still  missing  the  face  he  wanted. 

At  last  he  made  up  his  mind  that  she  had  gone  ashore; 
but  in  that  case  she  had  left  word  for  him,  of  course — word 
where  she  had  betaken  herself. 

"  I  beg  pardon,  sir,"  he  said,  stepping  up  to  a  man  who 
wore  a  gold  band  upon  his  cap,  and  was  presumably  an  officer, 
"  I'm  Pat  Nolan.  Is  there  a  bit  of  message  left  for  me,  do 
you  know,  sir?" 

"  Not  that  I'm  aware,"  the  officer  answered. 

"  It  was  Annie  O'Brien,"  said  Pat.  "  She  came  over  on 
this  steamer;  she  expected  me  to  mate  her,  and  she'd  lave 
word  where  she  is  gone — Annie  O'Brien." 


18  WERNER'S  READINGS 

The  officer  turned  a  curious,  startled  gaze  upon  him. 

"Annie  O'Brien,"  he  repeated.     "A  steerage  passenger ! " 

"In  coorse,  sir,"  said  Pat.  "  She's  coinin'  over  to  marry 
me,  an'  she's  a  workin'  girl.      We're  nayther  of  us  rich." 

The  officer  looked  at  him  again. 

"I  know  the  name,"  ho  said. 

"You  couldn't  help  noticin'  the  girl,"  said  Pat.  "She's 
a  purty  crayther,  is  Annie, — a  little  jewel.  You'd  not  fail  to 
notice  her." 

"Sit  down  a  moment,  Mr.  Nolan,"  said  the  officer.  "I 
will  make  some  inquiries.      Wait  here  for  me." 

"A  mighty  polite  gentleman,  though  he's  as  solemn  as  a 
funeral,"  said  Pat,  to  himself.  "I  hope  he'll  not  delay 
long.  I'm  wild  to  see  Annie.  Oh,  the  divil  fly  away  wid 
the  cars  that  kept  me  from  her !  It  was  what  she  had  a  right 
to  expect — the  first  one  aboord." 

The  officer  was  returning.  He  looked  more  serious  than 
ever. 

"Mr.  Nolan,"  he  said,  gravely,  "the  captain  would  like 
to  speak  to  you.  We  have  had  a  very  stormy  voyage,  as 
winter  voyages  often  are. ' ' 

"  But  you've  come  into  port  on  as  pleasant  a  day  as  there 
is  in  the  calendar,"  Pat  said,  cheerfully.  "A  Christmas 
couldn't  be  brighter." 

"  But  we  have  had  a  very  unpleasant  voyage,"  said  the 
officer,  gravely. 

He  opened  the  door  of  the  captain's  cabin.  Pat  entered 
with  his  hat  in  his  hand.  The  captain,  a  grave,  bronzed 
man,  with  iron-gray  hair,  sat  at  the  table  before  an  open 
book,  on  which  his  hand  lay. 

"  Sit  down,"  he  said. 

"  Thank  you,  sir.  It's  as  easy  standin',"  said  Pat,  with 
a  bow. 

"  You  had  better  sit  down,"  said  the  captain.  "I  may 
have  to  talk  to  you  for  some  minutes.  I  have  something  very 
particular  to  say  if  you  are  the  right  man.      Your  name  is — " 

"Pat  Nolan,"  said  Pat,  beginning  to  feel  astonished;  but 
then,  perhaps,  it  was  the  way  of  the  captains  of  ocean  steamers 


AND  RECITATIONS  No.  21.  19 

to  be  slow  and  solemn,  not  thinking  how  they  kept  people 
from  their  sweethearts. 

Pat  sat  down,  put  his  hat  on  the  floor,  and  cracked  all  his 
knuckles,  one  after  the  other,  as  he  waited. 

"  Your  name  is  Patrick, "  said  the  captain  again,  "and 
you  came  on  board  to  find  a  young  woman — a  friend  of 
yours?" 

"  My  sweetheart  promised  to  me.  "We  are  to  be  married 
to-day, ' '  said  Pat.  ' '  The  good  Lord  above  and  Father  Dunn 
will  help  me;  but  I'll  do  the  best  I  can  to  further  it  myself . " 

The  captain  looked  down  upon  the  pages  of  the  book  before 
him. 

"And  the  name  of  the  young  girl  you  are  asking  for?" 
he  said. 

"Annie  O'Brien,"  said  Pat,  beginning  to  think  the  cap- 
tain very  stupid — "Annie  O'Brien.  She's  the  Widdy 
O'Brien's  daughter — a  dacent  woman  is  the  widdy,  and  well 
respected.  They  are  neighbors  there  at  home  in  the  ould 
counthry." 

The  captain  ran  his  finger  down  a  long  column  of  names, 
and  stopped  at  last  and  looked  at  Pat  again. 

"  We  had  a  very  unpleasant  voyage,"  he  said,  slowly,  "a 
very,  very  unpleasant  voyage. ' ' 

"The  other  gentleman  was  tellin'  that,  sir,"  said  Pat. 
"  Bad  weather  must  be  a  threat  on  the  say,"  he  added,  in 
order  to  be  polite.  "An'  wid  all  thim  passengers  to  be 
watchin'  an'  carin'  f  er — worse  than  a  stablef  ul  of  bastes  ! ' ' 

"  Yes,"  said  the  captain,  "  we  try  to  care  for  our  passen- 
gers, but  the  steerage  is  a  little  crowded.  They  are  often 
very  sick." 

"Yes,  sir.  I  was  that  sick  myself  I  thought  I  be  dyin'," 
said  Pat. 

"  Some  are  severely  ill,"  said  the  captain. 

This  time  Pat  made  no  answer,  but  stared  at  him  with  a 
hot  flush  rising  to  his  face. 

"Sometimes  they  are  so  very  ill  that  they  die,"  the  cap- 
tain went  on.  ' '  Delicate  women,  you  know — little  children 
and  delicate  women." 


20  WERNER'S  READINGS 

Pat  still  looked  at  him  in  silence. 

"  AYhen  I  said  that  we  had  a  very  unpleasant  voyage,  I 
meant,"  said  the  captain,  "that  we  had  a  serious  illness — 
that  we  hid  death  on  board.  Two  steerage  passengers  died. 
One  was  William  O'Bourke,  an  old  man  coming  over  to  live 
with  his  son." 

"  God  rest  his  soul!"  said  Pat,  crossing  his  forehead. 

"The  other  who  was  very  ill  was  a  woman,"  said  the 
captain,  "a  young  woman,  and  very  pretty.  Mr.  ISTolan  we 
have  to  prepare  for  storms  in  this  life — we  have  to  brace  up 
and  bear  them  as  well  as  we  can.  They  are  hard  to  bear. 
I  am  very  sorry  to  say  that  I  am  afraid  you  are  about  to 
suffer  a  terrible  shock.  It  is  a  painful  task  to  tell  you.  The 
other  passenger  was  a  young  woman,  and  her  name,  as  we 
have  written  it  here,  was  Annie  O'Brien." 

All  the  color  had  gone  out  of  Pat's  face  by  this  time.  It 
was  white,  lips  and  all.  lie  dropped  his  arms  on  the  table 
and  hid  his  face  on  them,  and  great  sobs  shook  his  frame. 

The  captain  wiped  the  tears  from  his  own  eyes. 

"Talk  does  no  good,"  he  said.      "Time  only  can  comfort 

?ou'" 

"It  seems  as  if  I  could  not  believe  it,  captain,"  Pat  cried, 

lifting    his    tear-swollen    face.      "Annie — my    little    Annie! 

Are  you  sure  it  was  Annie?" 

"There  was  but  one  Annie  O'Brien  on  our  list,"  said  the 
captain.  "  She  gave  her  name  just  before  she  breathed  her 
last.  The  only  steerage  passenger  of  the  name  of  O'Brien 
died  on  the  voyage  of  a  fever.  The  doctor  cared  for  her  as 
well  as  he  knew  how.  The  women  nursed  her  kindly.  We 
buried  her  at  sea,  and  the  burial  service  was  said  by  a  Cath- 
olic clergyman  who  was  on  board.  You  might  like  to  know 
that,  so  I  tell  you." 

' '  My  Annie — my  Annie  at  the  bottom  of  the  say ! ' ' 
moaned  poor  Nolan.  "  And  I'll  niver  see  her  again;  niver 
kiss  her  red  lips ;  niver  feel  her  two  arms  about  me  neck ! 
Ah,  Annie,  I  won't  live  after  you — I  won't  live  after  you! 
Life  is  too  hard  to  bearwid  that  to  think  of.      It's  turned  me 


AND  RECITATIONS  No.  21.  21 

to  a  woman,  sir,  I'm  tliinkin' — but  we  was  goin'  to  be  mar- 
ried to- day,  sir." 

There  was  a  knock  at  the  door  just  then.  Pat  hid  his 
tear-stained  face  again- 

"No  admittance  just  now,"  cried  the  captain. 

"  I  didn't  mane  to  come  in,  plase,  sir,"  said  a  sweet  voice, 
"but  I'm  waitin'  this  long  time  till  me  friend  comes  aboord 
to  bring  me  home,  and  I'm  gettin'  anxious,  fearin'  something 
has  happened  him.  What  will  I  do,  sir?  He'd  be  askin' 
for  Annie  O'Brien,  and  he'd  be  Pat  Nolan,  that  I'm  promised 
to.      "Would  ye " 

But  the  captain  had  flung  wide  the  door,  and  Pat  was  on 
his  feet,  and  with  a  roar  like  that  of  a  buffalo,  had  flung  his 
arms  about  her. 

"  Glory  be  to  God  and  all  the  saints !"  he  cried.  "  You're 
not  dead  at  all !  You're  alive  !  I've  got  you  safe  and  sound  ! 
God  help  the  man  that  put  the  thrick  on  me,  for  I'll  lave  but 
the  bones  of  him!" 

"  Quiet,  there!"  shouted  the  captain.  "Down  with  your 
fist,  or  I'll  put  you  in  irons !  What  did  yon  mean  by  asking 
for  Annie  O'Brien,  a  steerage  passenger,  when  you  wanted 
Annie  Bailey,  a  first-cabin  passenger?  That  is  the  girl  that 
stands  there.      That  is  the  name  she  gave  us — Annie  Bailey. " 

"Captain  dear,"  cried  Annie,  clutching  her  Pat  by  the 
coat-tails,  "  captain,  darlin',  Pat  niver  knew — he  did  not. 
Since  writin'  him,  my  mother  married  again  wid  Mr.  Peter 
Bailey  that  kapes  a  foine  tavern  in  our  town.  And  he,  havin' 
money  to  spare,  said  I  should  come  like  a  lady,  and  paid  me 
passage ;  and  out  iv  compliment  to  him — being  my  mother's 
husband  and  so  generous  to  me — I  sailed  as  Annie  Bailey. 
That  is  the  way  it  was,  captain  ;  and  indade  all  the  throuble 
arose  from  it — for  I  wanted  Pat  to  find  me  sated  in  the  ile- 
gant  saloon,  and  stayed  there  waitin'  for  him." 

"You'll  excuse  me,  sir,"  said  Pat,  bowing  low,  "on 
account  of  what  I've  been  through." 

"All  right,  my  man,"  the  captain  answered;  and  then 
Pat  threw  his  arm  about  his  Annie  and  led  her  away, — the 
happiest  fellow  alive. 


23  WERNER'S  READINGS 


HE  WANTED  TO  KNOW. 


S.    W.    FOSS. 

HE  wanted  to  know  how  God  made  the  worl' 
Out  er  nothin'  at  all ; 
Wy  he  didn't  make  it  square,  like  a  block  or  a  brick, 

Stid  er  roun'  like  a  ball ; 
How  it  managed  to  stay  held  up  in  the  air, 

An'  w'y"  it  didn't  fall; 
All  sich  kin'  er  things,  above  an'  below, 

He  wanted  to  know. 
He  wanted  to  know  who  Cain  had  for  a  wife, 

An'  if  the  two  fit; 
Who  hit  Billy  Paterson  over  the  head, 

If  he  ever  got  hit ; 
An'  where  Moses  wuz  w'en  the  candle  went  out, 

An'  if  others  were  lit. 
If  he  couldn't  find  these  out,  w'y  his  cake  wuz  all  dough, 

An'  he  wanted  to  know. 
An'  he  wanted  to  know  'bout  original  sin, 

An'  about  Adam's  fall; 
If  the  snake  hopped  aroun'  on  the  end  of  his  tail 

Before  doomed  to  crawl ; 
An'  w'at  would  hev  happened  if  Adam  hedn'  et 

The  ol'  apple  at  all; 
These  ere  kin'  er  things  seemed  to  fill  him  'ith  woe, 

An'  he  wanted  to  know. 
An'  he  wanted  to  know  w'y  some  folks  wuz  good 

An'  some  folks  wuz  mean ; 
Wy  some  folks  wuz  meddlin',  an'  some  folks  wuz  fat 

An'  some  folks  wuz  lean, 
An'  some  folks  wuz  very  learned  an'  wise 

An'  some  folks  dern  green ; 
All  these  kin'  er  things  they  troubled  him  so 

That  he  wanted  to  know. 
An'  so  he  fired  conundrums  aroun', 


AND  RECITATIONS  No.  21.  23 

For  ho  wanted  to  know ; 
An'  Lis  nice  crop  er  taters  did  rot  in  the  groun', 

An'  his  cabbage  wouldn't  grow; 
For  it  took  so  much  time  to  ask  questions  like  these, 

He'd  no  time  to  hoe. 
lie  wanted  to  know  if  these  things  were  so; 

Course,  he  wanted  to  know. 
An'  his  cattle  they  died  an'  his  horses  grew  sick, 

'Cause  they  didn't  hcv  no  hay; 
An'  his  creditors  pressed,  him  to  pay  up  his  bills, 

But  he'd  no  time  to  pay, 
For  he  had  to  go  roun'  askin'  questions,  you  know, 

By  night  an'  by  day. 
He'd  no  time  to  work,  for  they  troubled  him  so, 

An'  he  wanted  to  know. 
An'  now  in  the  poorhousc  he  travels  aroun' 

In  jest  the  same  way, 
An'  asks  the  same  questions  right  over  ag'in, 

By  night  an'  by  day ; 
But  he  hain't  foun'  no  fellow  can  answer  'em  yit, 

An'  he's  ol'  an'  he's  gray ; 
But  these  same  ol'  conundrums  they  trouble  him  so 

That  he  still  wants  to  know. 


AN  ITALIAN'S  VIEW  ON  THE  LABOR  QUESTION. 


JOE    KERR. 


ONE  man  looka  at  da  labor  quest'  one  way,  noder  man 
looker  noder  way.  I  looka  deesa  way  : 
Longa  time  ago  I  gitta  born  in  Italia.  Fret'  quecck  I  gitta 
big  'nough  to  know  mya  dad.  I  find  him  one  worka  man. 
Him  worka  hard  in  da  hotta  sun — sweat  lika  da  wetta  rag  to 
maka  da  'nough  mon'  to  gitta  da  grub.  Mya  moth'  worka, 
too — worka  lika  da  dog.  Dey  make  alia  da  kids  work — mea, 
too.  Dat  maka  me  tired.  I  see  da  king,  da  queen,  and  da 
richa  peop'  driva  by  in  da swella  style.      It  maka  me  sick.     I 


24  WERNER'S  READINGS 

say  :  "  Da  world  alia  wrong.  Da  rich  have  too  mucha  mon', 
too  muclia  softa  snap.  Da  poor  have  too  mucha  work,  too 
much  a  dirt,  too  much  tougha  luck." 

Dat  maka  me  one  dago  anarchista.  I  hear  'bout  America, 
da  freak  countra,  where  da  worka  man  eata  da  minca  pie  and 
da  roaea  beef. 

I  taka  da  skip — taka  da  ship — sail  ova  da  wat' — reacha 
Hewa  York. 

Ya !  It  reminda  me  of  Naples — beautifula  bay,  blue  sky, 
da  plenta  lazaroni  and  mucha  dirta  streets. 

I  looka  r-round  for  da  easy  job.  It  noa  go.  Da  easy  jobs 
alia  gone. 

It  mora  work  to  gitta  da  work  dan  da  work  itself.  I  gitta 
down  on  da  richa  peop'  more  anda  more  alia  da  time.  Geea 
whiz !      Dat  f  reea  countra  maka  me  sick ! 

Well,  aft'  while  I  strika  da  job — pounda  da  stone  on  da 
railroad.  It  near  keela  me,  but  I  eata  da  ver'  lit'  grub, 
weara  da  olda  clothes,  and  socka  da  mon'  in  my  a  sock  eacha 
day.      I  learna  da  one  thing  :   Da  mon'  maka  da  mare  go. 

I  catcha  da  spirit  ofa  da  town  :  I  maka  what  you  calla  da 
progress.  I  find  da  man  what  maka  da  mon'  nev'  do  da 
harda  work.  I  quit.  I  buya  da  buncha  banan',  putta  da 
banan'  ina  da  bask  ona  my  arm,  sella  him  ona  da  street. 
Ilnlla  Gee !      I  maka  da  twenty-fi'  cent  a  day  clear. 

Yer'  soon  I  have  da  gr-rata  lotta  mon'.  I  buya  one  handa 
org' ;  maka  da  moos,  playa  "  Ta-ra-ra  boom  "  alia  over  da 
countra;  maka  more  mon' ;  den  I  buy  Jocka  da  monk'.  Da 
monk'  is  likadabusinessaman — ver'  smart.  I  maka  him  my 
cashier.  Him  passa  da  contribution  box  like  da  deacon  in  da 
church.      Him  maka  da  face,  him  dance. 

Da  biz  grow.  Wo  sella  da  org'— buy  one  street  piano.  I 
hira  one  'sistant.  Da  'sistant  posha  da  j)iano,  I  grinda  da 
crank,  da  monk'  taka  da  mon'. 

We  gitta  da  ver'  wella  off.  I  gitta  mar-r-d.  Buya  me 
one  home,  sweet  home. 

I  investa  ma  mon' — buy  da  fruita  stands  on  da  sidewalk — 
hire  da  cheapa  dago  chumps  to  runna  da  stands. 

De  labor  quest1  ver'  simp'- — ver'  plain.      When   I   poor  I 


AND  RECITATIONS  No.  SI.  2fi 

say:  "  Shoota  da  monopola!  Keela  da  r-r-richa  man!  ?' 
Alia  da  same  like  when  you  in  Roma  do  lika  da  Roma  peop'. 

.Now  I  one  r-ricba  man.  I  weara  da  fine  clothes,  pickamy 
teeth  with  da  golda  pick,  weara  da  diamond  stud,  driva  my 
team  and  snappa  my  fingers. 

It  maka  alia  da  dif '  in  da  worl'  which  sida  da  fence  you 
stana  on. 


A  THANKFUL  SOUL. 


FRANK  L.    STANTON. 

T  TAKE  life  jest  as  I  find  it. 

J.      If  it's  hot  I  never  mind  it; 
Hunt  around  fer  shady  trees 
An'  jest  whistle  up  a  breeze ! 
If  it's  snowin', — why  I  gc 
Jest  a-skiminin'  'crost  the  snow! 
(Ever  try  how  good  it  feels 
In  a  wagon  off  the  wheels?) 
Spring  or  winter,  summer,  fall, 
I'm  jest  thankful  fer  'em  all ! 

Folks  say  this  world's  full  o'  strife; 
That  jest  livens  up  my  life ! 
"When  the  good  Lord  made  it  He 
Done  the  best  fer  you  an'  me, — 
Saw  the  sky  had  too  much  blue, 
An'  rolled  up  a  cloud  or  two. 
Give  us  light  to  sow  an'  reap, 
Then  throwed  in  the  dark  fer  sleep. 
Every  single  drop  o'  dew 
Twinkles  on  a  rose  fer  you. 

Tell  you !   this  world's  full  o'  light, - 
Sun  by  day  an'  stars  by  night ; 
Sometimes  sorrow  comes  along, 
But  it's  all  mixed  up  with  song. 


26  WERNER'S  HEADINGS 

Folks  that  always  make  complaint 
They  ain't  healthy, — that  they  ain't! 
Some  would  jest  live  with  the  chills 
If  it  warn't  fer  doctors'  bills! 
Always  findin'  fault  with  things,— 
Kill  a  bird  because  it  sings. 

I  take  life  jest  as  I  find  it, — 
Hot  or  cold,  I  never  mind.  it. 
If  it's  a  sunshiny  day 
That's  my  time  fer  makin'  hay; 
If  it's  rainin',  fills  my  wish, — 
Makes  the  lakes  jest  right  fer  fish. 
"When  the  snow  falls  white  as  foam, 
Then  I  track  the  rabbits  home. 
Spring  or  winter,  summer,  fall, 
I'm  jest  thankful  fer  'em  all ! 


THROUGH  THE  FLOOD. 


IAN    MACLAREN. 

"TS'T  as  bad  as  yir  lookin',  doctor?     Tell's  the    truth; 

J_      wall  Annie  no  come  through?" 

Tammas  Mitchell  looked  Dr.  MacLure  straight  in  the  face, 
who  never  flinched  his  duty  or  said  smooth  things. 

' '  A'  wud  gie  onything  tae  say  Annie  hes  a  chance,  but  a' 
daurna;   a'  doot  yer  gaein'  tae  lose  her,  Tammas." 

' '  A'  wesna  prepared  for  this,  for  a'  thocht  she  wad  live 
the  langest.  She's  younger  than  me  by  ten  years  and  never 
wes  ill.  "We've  been  mairit  twal  year  laist  Martinmas,  but 
it's  juist  like  a  year  the  day.  A'  was  never  worthy  o'  her, 
the  bonniest,  snoddest,*  kindliest  lass  in  the  Glen.  A'  never 
cud  mak'  oot  hoo  she  ever  lookit  at  me,  'at  hesna  aef  word 
tae  say  aboot  her  till  it's  ower  late.  .  .  She  didna  cuist  J 
up  tae  me  that  a'  wasna  worthy  o'  her,  no  her,  but  aye  she 

*  Neatest,    t  One.    %  Cast. 


AND  RECITATIONS  No.  SI.  27 

said :  '  Yir  ma  ain  guidman,  and  nae  cud  be  lander  tae  me. ' 
An'  a'  wes  minded  tae  be  kind,  but  a'  see  noo  mony  little 
strokes  a'  mielit  hae  dune  for  her  an'  noo  time  is  by.  .  .  . 
An'  we  never  had  ae  cross  word,  no  ane  in  twal  year.  "We 
were  mair  nor  man  and  wife,  we  were  sweethearts  a'  the 
time.  Oh,  my  bonnie  lass,  what' 11  the  bairns  an'  me  dae 
withoot  ye,  Annie?" 

"  Ye  needna  plead  wi'  me,  Tammas,  tae  dae  the  best  a' 
can  for  yir  wife.  Man  a'  kent  her  lang  afore  ye  hived  her; 
a'  brocht  her  intae  the  warld;  a'  closed  her  mither's  een, 
and  it  was  me  nad  tae  tell  her  she  wes  an  orphan.  Did  ye 
think  a'  widna  save  Annie  if  I  cud?  If  there  wes  a  man  in 
Muirtown  'at  cud  dae  mair  for  her,  a'd  have  him  this  verra 
nicht,  but  a'  the  doctors  in  Perthshire  are  helpless  for  this 
tribble." 

"  It's  God's  wull  an'  maun  be  borne,  but  it's  a  sair  wull 
for  me  an'  a'm  no  ungrateful  tae  you,  doctor,  for  a'  ye've 
dune  an'  what  ye  said  the  nicht." 

Tammas  went  back  to  sit  with  Annie  for  the  last  time. 

Jess,  the  doctor's  horse,  picked  her  way  through  the  deep 
snow  to  the  main  road  with  a  skill  that  came  of  long  experi- 
ence and,  according  to  his  wont,  the  doctor  held  converse 
with  the  mare. 

' '  Eh,  Jess,  yon  wes  the  hardest  wark  a'  hae  tae  face,  to 
tell  Tammas  Mitchell  his  wife  was  deein'.  A'  said  she  cudna 
be  cured,  and  it  wes  true,  for  there's  juist  ae  man  in  the 
land  fit  for't  and  they  micht  as  weal  try  tae  get  the  mime  oot 
o'  heaven.  But  it's  hard,  Jess,  that  money  wall  buy  life 
after  a'.  If  Annie  wes  a  duchess  her  man  wudna  lose  her; 
but  bein'  only  a  puir  cotter's  wife,  she  maun  dee  afore  the 
week's  oot.  Gin  we  had  him  the  morn  there's  little  doot 
she  wud  be  saved.  It's  oot  o'  the  question,  Jess,  but  it  wud 
be  the  grandest  thing  that  wes  ever  dune  in  the  Glen  in  oor 
time,  if  it  could  be  managed  by  hook  or  crook." 

"Come  in  by,  doctor;  a'  heard  ye  on  the  road.  Ye  'ill 
hae  been  at  Tammas  Mitchell's.      Hoos  the  gude wife?" 

"  Drumsheugh,  Annie's  deein'  an'  Tammas  is  like  tae 
brak  his  hert. ' ' 


28  WERNER'S  READINGS 

"  That's  no  liclitsome,  no  lichtsome  ava.*  A'  dinna  ken 
ony  man  in  Drumtochty  sae  bund  up  in  Lis  wife  as  Tammas, 
and  there's  no  a  bonnier  wumman  o'  her  age  crosses  oor  kirk 
door  than  Annie.  Man,  ye'll  need  tae  pit  yir  brains  in  steep. 
Js  she  clean  beyond  ye?" 

"Beyond  me  and  every  ither  in  the  land  but  ane,  and  it 
wild  cost  a  hundred  guineas  to  bring  him  tae  Drumtochty.'5 

"  Certes,  he's  no  blate.f  It's  a  fell  chairge  for  a  short 
day's  wark,  but  hundred  or  no  hundred  we'll  hae  him!" 

"  Are  ye  meanin',  Drumsheugh?" 

MacLure  turned  white  below  the  tan. 

"Weelum  MacLure,  a'm  a  lonely  man,  in'  naebody  o' 
ma  ain  blude  tae  care  for  me  livin'  or  tae  lift  me  intae  ma 
coffin  when  a'm  deid.  A'  fecht  awa  at  Muirtown  market 
for  an  extra  pund  on  a  beast  or  shillin'  on  a  quarter  o'  barley, 
an'  what's  the  gude  o't?  Ilka  man  in  the  kildrummie  train 
has  some  bit  fairin'  in  his  pooch  for  the  fouk  at  hame  that 
he's  bocht  in  the  siller  he  won.  But  there's  naebody  tae  be 
lookin'  oot  for  me,  an'  comin'  doon  the  road  tae  meet  me 
and  damn'  ^  wi'  me  aboot  their  fairin'  or  feelin'  ma  pockets. 
Oo,  ay,  a've  seen  it  a'  at  ither  hooses,  though  they  tried  tae 
hide  it  frae  me  for  fear  a'  wud  lauch  at  them.  Me  lauch, 
wi'  ma  cauld  empty  hame!  "Weel,  a'  we  can  dae  noo, 
"Weelum,  gin  we  haena  mickle  brichtness  in  oor  ain  hames, 
is  tae  keep  the  licht  frae  gaein'  oot  in  anither  hoose.  Write 
the  telegram,  man,  and  Sandy  '11  send  it  aff  frae  Kildrummie 
this  vera  nicht  and  ye  '11  hae  yir  man  the  morn." 

Next  morning  a  figure  received  Sir  George  on  the  Kil- 
drummie platform,  whom  that  famous  surgeon  took  for  a 
gillie, §  but  who  introduced  himself  as  "MacLure  of  Drum- 
tochty." The  two  stood  together, — the  one  in  traveling  furs, 
handsome  and  distinguished,  with  his  strong,  cultured  face 
and  carriage  of  authority ;  the  other  more  marvelously  dressed 
than  ever,  for  Drumsheugh's  top-coat  had  been  forced  upon 
him  for  the  occasion ;  his  neck  and  face  one  redness  with  the 
bitter  cold ;   rough  and  ungainly,  yet  not  without  some  signs 


*  At  all.    +  Indeed  he  is  not  bashful,  not  modest  in  his  demands.    X  Joking. 
§  Highland  man-servant. 


AND  RECITATIONS  No.  21.  29 

of  power  in  his  eye  and  voice.  MacLure  compassed  the  pre- 
cious arrival  with  observances  till  he  was  seated  securely  in 
Drumsheugh's  Jog-cart,  with  two  full-sized  plaids  added  to 
his  equipment  and  another  wrapped  round  a  leathern  case 
with  such  reverence  as  might  be  given  to  the  Queen's  regalia. 

MacLure  explained,  when  they  were  in  the  fir- woods,  that 
it  would  be  an  eventful  journey.  Four  times  they  left  the 
road  and  took  their  way  over  fields,  twice  they  forced  a  pas- 
sage through  a  slap  in  a  dike,  thrice  they  used  gaps  in  the 
paling  that  MacLure  had  made  on  his  downward  journey. 

"The  bridge  has  been  shakin'  wi'  this  winter's  flood,  and 
we  daurna  venture  on  it,  sae  we  hev  tae  ford.  It  micht  be 
safer  tae  lift  the  instruments  oot  o'  reach  o'  the  water.  ~W"ud 
ye  mind  haudin'  them  on  yir  knee  till  we're  ower,  and  keep 
firm  in  yir  seat  in  case  we  come  on  a  stane  in  the  bed  o'  the 
river?" 

They  had  come  to  the  edge,  and  it  was  not  a  cheering 
sight.  The  Tochty  had  spread  out  over  the  meadows,  and 
while  they  waited  they  could  see  it  cover  another  two  inches 
on  the  trunk  of  a  tree.  There  are  summer  floods,  when  the 
water  is  brown  and  flecked  with  foam,  but  this  was  a  winter 
flood,  which  is  black  and  sullen,  and  runs  in  the  centre  with 
a  strong,  fierce,  silent  current.  Upon  the  opposite  side  Hill- 
ocks stood  to  give  directions  by  word  and  hand,  as  the  ford 
was  on  his  land,  and  none  knew  the  Tochty  better  in  all  its 
ways. 

They  passed  the  shallow  water  without  mishap,  save  when 
the  wheel  struck  a  hidden  stone  or  fell  suddenly  into  a  rut ; 
but  when  they  neared  the  body  of  the  river  MacLure  halted, 
to  give  Jess  a  minute's  breathing. 

"  It'll  tak  ye  a'  yir  time,  lass,  an'  a'  wud  raither  be  on  yir 
back;  but  ye  never  failed  me  yet,  and  a  wumman's  life  is 
hangin'  on  the  crossin'." 

With  the  first  plunge  into  the  bed  of  the  stream  the  water 
rose  to  the  axles,  and  then  it  crept  up  to  the  shafts,  so  that 
the  surgeon  could  feel  it  lapping  in  about  his  feet,  while  the 
dog-cart  began  to  quiver,  and  it  seemed  as  if  it  were  to  be 
carried  away. 


30  WERNER'S  READINGS 

Sir  George  was  as  brave  as  most  men,  but  lie  had  never 
forded  a  Highland  river  in  flood,  and  the  mass  of  black  water 
racing  past  beneath,  before,  behind  him,  affected  his  imagina- 
tion and  shook  his  nerves.  He  rose  from  his  seat  and  ordered 
MacLure  to  turn  back,  declaring  that  he  would  be  condemned 
utterly  and  eternally  if  he  allowed  himself  to  be  drowned  for 
any  person. 

"Sitdoon!"  thundered  McLure.  "Condemned  ye  will 
be,  suner  or  later,  gin  ye  shirk  yir  duty,  but  through  the 
water  ye  gang  the  day ! ' ' 

Jess  trailed  her  feet  along  the  ground  with  cunning  art, 
and  held  her  shoulder  against  the  stream ;  MacLure  leaned 
forward  in  his  seat,  a  rein  in  each  hand,  and  his  eyes  fixed  on 
Hillocks,  who  was  now  standing  up  to  the  waist  in  water, 
shouting  directions  and  cheering  on  horse  and  driver. 

"  Hand  tae  the  richt,  doctor;  there's  a  hole  yonder. 
Keep  oot  o't  for  ony  sake.  That's  it;  yir  daein'  fine. 
Steady,  man,  steady.  Yir  at  the  deepest ;  sit  heavy  in  yir 
seats.  Up  the  channel  noo,  and  ye'ill  be  oot  o'  the  swirl. 
"Weel  dune,  Jess !  weel  dune,  auld  mare !  Mak  straicht  for 
me,  doctor,  an'  a'll  gie  ye  the  road  oot.  Ma  word  ye've 
dune  yir  best,  baith  o'  ye,  this  mornin' ; ' '  cried  Hillocks, 
splashing  up  to  the  dog-cart,  now  in  the  shallows. 

"  Sail,  it  wes  titch  an'  go  for  a  meenut  in  the  middle;  a 
hielan'  ford  is  a  kittle  *  road  in  the  snaw  time,  but  ye're  safe 
noo. " 

Two  hours  later  MacLure  came  out  of  Annie's  room,  laid 
hold  of  Tammas,  carried  him  off  to  the  barn,  spread  some 
corn  on  the  threshing  floor  and  thrust  a  flail  into  his  hands. 

"Noo  we've  tae  begin,  an'  we'ill  no  be  dune  for  a  'oor 
an'  ye've  to  lay  on  without  stoppin'  till  a'  come  for  ye  an' 
a'll  shat  the  door  tae  baud  in  the  noise.  Keep  yir  dog  beside 
ye,  for  there  maunna  be  a  cheep  about  the  hoose  for  Annie's 
sake." 

"A'll  dae  onything  ye  want  me,  but  if — if — " 

"  A'll  come  for  ye,  Tammas,  gin  there  be  danger.  But 
what  are  ye  feared  for,  wi'  the  Queen's  ain  surgeon  here?" 

*  Hazardous. 


AND  RECITATIONS  No.  SI.  31 

Fifty  minutes  did  the  flail  rise  and  fall,  save  twice  when 
Tammas  crept  to  the  door  and  listened,  the  dog  lifting  his 
head  and  whining.  Then  the  door  swung  back  and  MacLure 
filled  the  way,  preceded  by  a  burst  of  light,  and  his  face  was 
as  tidings  of  great  joy. 

"A'  never  saw  the  marrow*  o't,  Tammas.  It's  a'  ower, 
man,  without  a  hitch,  an'  she's  fa' in'  asleep  as  fine  as  ye  like. " 

"  Dis  he  think  Annie'll  live?" 

"  Of  coorse,  he  dis,  and  be  aboot  the  hoose  inside  a  month 
— Preserve  ye,  man !  What's  wrang  wi'  ye?  It's  a  mercy 
a'  keppit  ye,  or  we  wud  hev  anither  job  for  Sir  George.  .  . 
Ye're  a'  richt  noo.  Sit  doon  on  the  strae.  Ye  can  see 
Annie  juist  for  a  meenut,  but  ye  manna  say  a  word." 

Tammas  said  nothing  then  or  afterward,  but  Annie  whis- 
pered : 

"  Ma'  ain  dear  man." 

When  the  doctor  placed  the  precious  bag  of  instruments 
beside  Sir  George  in  the  train  next  morning,  he  laid  a  check 
beside  it. 

"  No,  no.  I  know  the  whole  story  about  you  and  your 
friend.  You  have  some  right  to  call  me  a  coward,  but  I'll 
never  let  you  count  me  mean  and  miserly, ' '  and  the  check 
fell  in  fifty  pieces  on  the  floor. 

As  the  train  began  to  move,  a  voice  called  out  from  the 
carriage,  so  that  all  the  station  heard  : 

"Give  me  another  shake  of  your  hand,  MacLure.  I  am 
proud  to  have  met  you.  You're  an  honor  to  your  profession. 
Mind  the  antiseptic  dressings ! ' ' 


ALONG  THE  LINE. 


IRWIN    RUSSELL. 


WHAT   say?     A  song  or  a  story?     Draw  up  a  box  'r  a 
chair, 
All  them  that   is  wantin'  to  listen, — but,  boys,  I'm  a-teliin' 
you  fair ! 


*  Mate. 


32  WERNERS  READINGS 

You  didn't  know  Jim — of  course  not —      I'm  tellin'  you  now 

of  him, 
A  fearful  chap  on  his  muscle,  a  wild  old  boy  was  Jim ; 
But,    boys,    now   don't  you  forgit  it — he  was  as  good  and 

square 
As  any  man  that  his   country  held — and  plenty  of  men  was 

there. 

Jim  was   a    lightnin'-jerker — of    course   you    know  what   I 

mean; 
He  sat  at  his  little  table,  and  rattled  the  Morse  machine. 
And  didn't  it  rattle?     I  bet  you!      He'd  studied  it  down  so 

fine, 
There  wasn't  a  one   that  could   "send  "  with  him,  not  all 

along  the  line. 

One  time  Jim  sat  in  his  office,  a-singin'  and  gazin'  out, 
When  in  come  a  feller  was  lookin'    skeered,  and  'nuff  to  be 

skeered  about ! 
He  told  his  news  in  a  minnut  and,  man  as  he  was,  got  cryin', 
And  "  Yaller  fever  is  broken  out!  "  went  clickin'  along  the 

line. 

I  think  that  line  was  connected  with  every  soul  in  the  land, 

From  what  was  sent  to  us  Howards — I'm  one,  d'  you  under- 
stand ? 

Of  all  the  parts  of  the  Union,  no  tellin'  which  helped  us 
most; 

And  we  was  a-workin' — we  was,  sir,  and  Jim  he  kep'  to  his 
post. 

All  day  long  he  was  sittin'  pushin'  away  at  the  key, 

Or  takin'  off  from  his  sounder,  just  as  the  case  might  be ; 

And  most  of  the  night  a-nursin',  and  what  was  breakin'  his 

heart, 
Was  knowin'  his  only  sister  and  him  was  seventy  miles  apart. 

The  air  got  full  of  the  fever ;   grass  growed  up  in  the  street. 
^Travel  the  town  all  over,  and  never  a  man  you'd  meet, 


AND  RECITATIONS  No.  SI.  32 

'Copt  may  be  some  feller  a-nursin',  who'd  say,  as  he  passed 

you  by  : 
"  I'm  tryin'  to  find  the  doctor,'1  or,  "  Billy  is  bound  to  die." 

When   folks  went   under,  they  might  be  the  very  best  in  the 

land. 
We    throwed    'em  into  a  white  pine   box,  and  dumped  'em 

out,  offhand, 
To    wait   their    turn    to  be  planted — without   a   word  or   a 

prayer. 
There  wa'n't  no  chance  and  there  wa'n't  no  time  fer  pray  in' 

er  preachin'  there. 

Well,  Jim  he  minded  his  duty,  and  stuck  to  the  work — oh! 

yes ; 
But,  boys,  one  Saturday  night,  when  he  was  busy  sendin'  the 

press, 
Then  come  a  break,  and  his  office  call,  and,  soon  as  he'd  time 

to  sign, 
"  Your  sister's  took  the  fever  and  died  "  come  flash  in'  along 

the  line. 

Throw  up  the  window  and  let  in  air !  How  can  I  breathe  or 
speak 

With —  Jim?  Oh,  certainly,  news  like  that  was  bound  to 
make  him  weak. 

But  Jim  sot  straight  at  the  table — he  wasn't  the  man  to 
shirk ! 

And  calm  and  cooler  than  I  am  now,  he  finished  the  com- 
pany's work. 

But    then    he    dropped — and  in   four  days  more  all  that  was 

left  of  him 
Was  the   wasted  body  that  once  had  held  the  noblest  soul — 

poor  Jim ! 
Oh !   bo)7s,  that  brother   anil   sister  was  Tjrother  and  sister  <?' 

mine. 
I  wonder  if   ever  we'll  meet  again,  somewhere' s  along   the 

line. 


34  WERNER'S  READINGS 


LITTLE  MABEL  AT  LONG  BRANCH. 


"Wednesday.     Long  Branch. 
Dear  Newspaper 

I  AM  a  little  girl  just  nine  years  old.  My  Mama  is  a  Duti- 
ful lady  she  is  the  lovliest  woman  in  the  world.  I 
heard  a  gentleman  tell  her  so  and  mama  sent  me  away  to  play 
on  the  beech.  We  have  got  a  baby  a  pretty  big  Baby  two 
years  old  he  is  a  dear  little  fellow.  Marie  takes  care  of  him 
Marie  is  the  bonne  Marie  is  pretty  cross  she  slaps  us  both. 

The  Baby  has  great  big  blue  eyes  and  little  cunnin  yellow 
curls  all  over  his  head. 

I  have  a  big  sash  &  blue  shoes  on  every  afternoon  but  I 
love  the  baby  best,  his  name  is  Robby.  Papa  loves  the  baby 
too  &  he  loves  me.  He  comes  here  sometimes  on  sunday.  I 
have  a  Pony  here  but  I  like  my  j)apa  best.  Bathing  is  good 
for  children.  Mama  sends  Marie  to  bath  me  in  the  sea. 
She  undresses  me  &  the  bathing  man  dips  me  and  I  screagh. 
baby  screaghs  in  a  little  tub  in  the  bath  house. 

I  hate  the  sea.  But  I  love  the  Sand  I  dig  in  it  and  make 
houses.  It  won't  make  you  dirty.  My  name  is  Mabel  but 
the  children  here  at  the  hotel  call  me  Runaway  dear.  That 
is  not  because  I  am  like  a  horse  but  because  my  Mama  who 
is  most  butiful  and  wears  butiful  dresses  and  shiny  rings  says 
to  me  all  the  time  runaway  dear.  And  the  gentleman  with 
the  black  moustash  that  says  my  mama  is  the  lovliest  woman 
in  the  world  says  runaway  too,  so  I  runaway. 

My  Papa's  moustash  is  gray  I  like  that  best.  It  is  only 
five  o'clock  but  mama  is  out  driving  &  Marie  will  slap  me  if 
I  dont  go  to  bed.  It  is  very  light  I  dont  want  to  go  to  bed. 
Marie  says  in  f  rench  but  I  cant  write  it  down  in  French  Your 
Mama  is  out  with  him  she  says  him  hard  so  HIM.  And  she 
wont  be  in  till  ten  she  never  is.      Go  to  sleep. 

Marie  is  cross  Mama  is  a  butiful  lady.  I  hate  that  gentle- 
man with  the  black  mousttash.      I  won't  go  to  sleep. 

Your  affecshunate  friend 

Mabel. 


AND  RECITATIONS  No.  21.  35 


, 


Thursday" 
Long  Branch. 
Dear  Newspaper 

My  papa  is  Here  He  saw  the  letter  I  wrote  you  only 
for  fun.  he  says  I  must  write  you  more  and  he  will  send  it 
to  be  printed  because  it  may  do  somebody  good.  I  dont  know 
what  he  means.  I  cant  write  so  good  as  I  did  yesterday  or 
spel  so  good  for  I  feel  bad  Last  night  when  mama  was  out 
driving  with  the  gentleman  with  the  black  moustash  Marie 
put  me  to  bed  when  the  sun  was  shining,  she  was  going  to 
put  Robby  to  bed  two  but  Robby  is  only  a  baby  and  he  yeld 
Mama  Mama.  Marie  said  tais  toi  petit  diable  and  she  rocked 
him  hard.  The  waiter  that  kisses  Marie  on  the  beech  when  I 
aint  looking  came  to  the  door  and  said  she  must  hurry  up  if 
she  expected  to  go  with  him  and  have  any  fun  with  him  at 
the  danse.  She  said  this  petit  diable  wont  go  to  sleep  she 
rocked  him  hard  and  Robby  cried  out  all  the  time  He  wasnt 
sleepy. 

I  told  Marie  so  and  she  said  he  was  thirsty  and  gave  him 
something  to  drink  out  of  a  spoon  and  then  he  went  to  sleep. 

I  went  to  sleep  two  &  when  it  was  dark  in  the  night  I 
woke  up.  There  was  a  big  moon  but  the  corners  were  all 
black  and  I  saw  the  big  wolf  that  Marie  tells  me  about  stand- 
ing in  a  black  corner.  I  dident  screagh  because  my  throat 
hurt  me  so  I  couldent  but  I  covered  up  my  head  and  prayed. 
I  prayed  Now  I  lay  me  down  to  sleep  because  that  was  all  I 
could  think  of  but  theres  nothing  about  a  wolf  in  it.  I  guess 
God  knew  I  meant  about  the  wolf. 

In  a  good  while  Marie  came  in  softly  and  when  I  said  O 
Marie  the  wolf  was  here  she  said  quick  did  Robbie  wake  up. 
I  said  no,  &  I  clung  to  her  dress  when  she  went  to  Robby's 
crib  she  had  a  light. 

Robby  was  fast  asleep  and  Marie  tried  to  wake  him  up.  I 
said  what  makes  you  wake  him  up?  Marie  dident  slap  me 
then — she  looked  at  me  most  awful  and  she  dragged  me  to 
my  bed  and  put  me  in  an  cuvered  me  up  and  said  if  I  dident 
go  to  sleep  with  my  face  to  the  wall  she  would  bring  tho 
wolf  so  I  lied  very  still.    Maries  voice  was  queer  as  if  she  had 


36  WERNER'S  READINGS 

a  cold  and  she  kept  shaking  Hobby  and  trying  to  wake  him 
up.  then  she  said  Sainte  Yierge  and  then  she  told  mo  not  to 
stir  or  she  would  bring  the  wolf  and  I  heard  her  open  her 
trunk  and  take  things  out  of  it  quick  and  softly  and  she  said 
if  I  wasent  still  devels  would  cat  me.  I  screaghed  and  she 
put  her  hand  over  my  mouth  and  said  she  would  keep  the 
wolf  and  the  devels  away  if  I  was  still  as  a  mouse  &  shut 
my  eyes  and  put  my  fingers  in  my  ears.  I  did  that  for  about 
a  good  while  and  I  went  to  sleep. 

When  I  woke  up  again  it  was  dark  almost  and  I  couldn't 
see  the  moon  I  called  Marie  and  then  I  crept  over  to  her  bed. 
it  was  all  white  and  Marie  wasent  in  it  I  cried  out  very 
loud  and  fell  on  the  floor  then  I  climbed  in  little  Itobbys  crib 
and  laid  down  by  him.  R.obby  was  all  cold  and  I  covered 
him  up  and  said  now  I  lay  me  twice  Once  for  him  because 
lies  a  baby  and  can't  say  his  prayers.  And  I  put  my  arms 
round  him  to  make  him  warm  and  I  went  to  sleep.  When  I 
woke  up  to-day  it  was  sunshiney  it  was  children's  dinner 
time.  A  great  many  people  all  the  waiters  and  chambermaids 
and  gentlemen  and  ladys  were  all  round  our  crib. 

A  lady  said  O  poor  little  thing  take  her  away.  They  lifted 
me  out  on  the  floor  and  a  gentleman  said  O  no  she  may  tell 
us  about  it.  I  said  where  is  Marie  Hobby  must  get  up  and  be 
dressed  and  a  lady  stood  before  the  crib  and  I  said  is  he 
asleep !  She  said  yes  he  is  asleep  where  is  Marie ;  I  told  them 
perhaps  the  wolf  had  eaten  her  up  but  I  don't  believe  that 
much  when  the  sun  shines,  I  told  them  all  what  had  hap- 
pened in  the  night  like  I  have  told  you ;  Everybody  looked 
strange  and  said  Marie  was  wicked  and  would  be  tryed  and 
bunged  if  they  caught  her  I  laughed  and  said  I  was  glad  she 
had  gone  because  she  slapped  us  and  I  hoped  nobody  wouldn't 
catch  her.     I  said  I  could  dress  my  little  brother. 

All  the  ladies  said  no  no.  And  a  lady  cryed  and  kissed  me 
and  said  she  was  going  to  dress  him  but  I  must  be  good  and 
go  to  Mama's  room.  I  told  that  lady  don't  cry  because 
Marie  went  away.  I  won't  cry  for  her  I'm  glad.  But  that 
lady  said  she  would  dress  Hobby  so  I  went  to  Mama's  room. 
A  strange  gentleman  was  there  who  looked  very  sorry  and 
more  people  to  and  he  said  something  to  mama. 


AND  RECITATIONS  No.  21.  37 

I  saw  my  mama  fall  down  on  the  floor  all  wliite  ami  she 
said  I'm  punished  I'm  punished  O  my  Baby.  I  said  Mama 
don't  cry  that  lady  will  dress  the  Baby.  That  strange  gen- 
tleman gave  Mama  something  out  of  a  little  bottle  and  he 
made  Bridget  the  chambermaid  take  me  down  on  the  beech. 

Bridget  rocked  herself  and  cryed  and  told  me  storries  and 
was  good  to  me.  She  dident  slap  me  like  Marie.  Bridget 
said  Marie  was  a  frinch  divil  and  she  had  gone  away  in  the 
night  and  nobody  wont  find  her  any  more.  I  am  glad  of 
that  Papa  came  down  to  the  beech  for  me. 

Bridget  said  the  telegraf  had  brought  him  from  New  York 
quick.  He  kissed  me  but  he  was  so  white  and  his  lips  were 
white  and  his  hands  were  cold.  I  ran  to  our  room  to  see 
Robby.  The  strange  man  that  looked  sorry  was  there.  My 
papa  said  is  there  no  hope  doctor.  The  man  said  none  the 
stuff  did  its  work  in  a  few  hours.      My  papa  cryed  out  loud. 

I  ran  to  my  mama's  room  she  was  in  a  chair  all  still  like  a 
picture.  Her  eyes  were  big  and  her  hair  was  all  over  her 
Dutiful  dress. 

I  said  mama  and  she  threw  up  her  arms  and  said  O  so 
loud  O  my  baby  my  baby.  Then  some  people  sent  me  away 
but  Robby  was  asleep  on  Mama's  bed  but  they  wouldn't  let 
me  kiss  him  or  go  near  him.      Robby  was  all  white. 

Papa's  eyes  are  all  red.  I  showed  him  the  letter  I  wrote 
yesterday  to  make  him  laugh,  he  doesn't  laugh.  He  says 
write  my  little  girl,  write  all  you  can  think  of  then  you  shall 
kiss  your  little  brother. 

Papa  says  to  the  strange  man  Are  there  no  mothers  nowa- 
days doctor  and  papa  cries  more.  Hush  the  doctor  says  she 
is  to  be  pittied  this  blow  has  almost  killed  her. 

My  hair  is  all  wet  papa  cries  so.  Excuse  my  bad'  writing 
I  never  wrote  such  a  long  letter  before,  papa  will  take  me 
to  Robby  now  He  says  for  the  last  time  for  the  last  time.  My 
little  boy  O  my  little  boy.  I  feel  bad  too  but  I  dont  see  what 
papa  means  because  Robby  is  asleep  on  mama's  bed. 

Good  by 

Your  affecshunate  friend 

Mabel. 


38  WERNER'S  READINGS 


JIM'S  STORY. 


H.  S.  TOMEK. 

I  TELL  you  plain,  if  I  don't  try 
To  brace  myself  right  firm  I'll  cry. 
This  soft  wind  and  this  haze  and  sun, 
And  the  gold  and  red  that  melt  and  run 
And  splash  the  hills,  and  she  not  here 
To  say  things  about  the  dying  year  I 
Didn't  I  tell  you?     Oh,  I  see. 
They  called  her  Dora,  all  but  me; 
Fer  she  was  a  delicate  lady  born, 
And  I,  well,  I  was  huskin'  corn;  ' 
So  I  called  her  Miss.     She  was  stayin'  here 
Per  the  country  air  the  heft  of  the  year. 
Sometimes  she'd  sit  out  under  a  tree 
And  watch  the  hired  man  work, — that's  me; 
But  she  got  so  frail-like  along  in  the  fall 
That  she  didn't  weigh  nothin',  wraps  and  all, 
And  the  women-folks  got  me  to  lend  a  hand 
Movin'  her  out  in  the  sun  to  be  tanned. 

That's  what  they  said,  but  she  didn't  seem 
To  care  about  jokin' ;  just  wanted  to  dream 
And  look  at  the  foliage,  gold  and  red, 
On  the  hills,  and  talk  about  bein'  dead! 
Cheerful?     Well,  no;   not  exactly  that; 
But  I  used  to  potter  around  where  she  sat, 
Just  watchin'  her,  sort  of,  under  the  rim 
Of  my  hat,  and  wishin'  she'd  call  me  Jim! 
Ever  had  that  feelin'  ?     "Weil,  I  never  cared 
Fer  a  girl  that  was  well,  but  if  I  dared 
I'd  'a'  told  her  how  it  made  me  thrill 
"When  I  stole  a  look  at  her,  sittin'  so  still 
And  holdin'  the  red  leaves  in  her  hands, 
Quotin'  some  song  about  lotus  lands — 


AND  RECITATIONS  No.  21.  3 

Some  place  where  it's  always  afternoon — 
In  a  voice  that  was  soft  and  sweet  as  a  tune, 
And  so  I  just  listened  from  under  the  rim 
Of  my  hat,  sort  of  wishin'  she'd  call  me  Jim! 

That  kind  of  girls  ain't  fer  such  as  me, 

Nor  fer  nobody  else's  far's  I  can  see; 

Per  they  jist  creep  into  a  hired  man's  heart 

When  the  leaves  turn  red  and  the  brown  burrs  part; 

And  then  when  it  snows  and  the  skies  are  lead 

And  it's  still  in  the  house,  you  know  who's  dead ! 

I've  no  right  to  murmur,  but  somehow  yet, 

Try  as  hard  as  I  may,  I  can  never  ferget 

How  I  thrilled  when  her  white  hand  touched  my  arm ; 

And  now  when  the  trees  are  red  on  the  farm 

Sometimes  I  listen  from  under  the  rim 

Of  my  hat,  sort  of  wishin'  she'd  called  me  Jim  I 


00R  WEE  LADDIE. 


WILLIAM  LTLE. 

HE'S  juist  as  sweet  as  sweet  can  be— 
Oor  wee  laddie. 
Perfection  to  his  mither's  ee, 
For  a'  the  warl'  I  wadna  gie 

Oor  wee  laddie. 
Ee  looks  just  like  a  butter  ba% 

Oor  wee  laddie. 
Ilka  bit  aboot  him's  braw, 
I  wunner  wha  he's  like  ava, 

Oor  wee  laddie. 
He  peeps  sae  cunnin'  frae  his  een— 

Oor  wee  laddie. 
Sometimes  he's  dirty,  sometimes  clean, 
He  disna  seem  to  care  a  preen — 

Oor  wee  laddie. 


40  WERNERS  READINGS 

lie's  aye  in  mischief — late  or  sune— 

Oor  wee  laddie. 
But  Megsty  !   when  a's  said  an'  dune, 
There's  no  his  like  aneath  the  raune — 

Oor  wee  laddie. 

"Whiles  lie  tumbles  off  his  chair, 

Oor  wee  laddie. 
But  ne'er  a  greet  has  he  to  spare, 
He's  up  again  an'  after  in  air — 

Oor  wee  laddie. 
Gude  bless  an'  guide  him  a'  his  days, 

Oor  wee  laddie. 
May  he  ne'er  bend  to  gather  straes, 
But  aye  be  found  in  wisdom's  ways, 

Oor  wee  laddie. 
An'  syne,  when  time  has  closed  his  span, 

Oor  wee  laddie, 
May  he  wi'  his  auld  mither  stan', 
A  prince  for  aye  in  yon  far  Ian' — 

Oor  wee  laddie. 


I  KISSED  THE  COOK. 


I  KISSED  the  cook.     Ah,  me,  she  was  divine — 
Cheeks  peachy,  dark  brown  eyes,  lips  red  as  wine, 
Long  apron  with  a  bow, 
A  cap  as  white  as  snow, 
By  far  too  tempting.     So  I  kissed  the  cook. 

I  kissed  the  cook,  this  angel  from  the  skies, 
And  yet  I  did  not  take  her  by  surprise. 

'Twas  mean,  I  will  allow, 

But  if  you'll  make  the  vow 
To  keep  it,  I'll  tell  how  I  kissed  the  cook. 

I  kissed  the  cook,  poor  helpless  little  lass! 
The  chance  so  good  I  could  not  let  it  pass. 


AND  RECITATIONS  No.  2L  41 

Her  hands  were  in  the  dough, 
She  dared  not  spoil,  you  know, 
My  Sunday  suit,  and  so  I  kissed  the  cook. 

I  kissed  the  cook.     I  might  have  been  more  strong; 
But,  then,  you  know  it  wasn't  very  wrong, 

For  just  'tween  you  and  me, 

The  cook's  my  wife,  is  she. 
So  I'd  a  right,  you  see,  to  kiss  the  cook. 


'DIDN'T  THINK  0'  LOSIN'  HIM.' 


FRANK  L.   STANTON. 

ALWAYS  wuz  abusin'  him — 
Rough  an'  rougher  usin'  him, 
Love  an'  all  refusin'  him, 

Though  his  tears  'u'd  fall. 
Didn't  think  o'  losin'  him — 
Not  at  all ! 

He,  poor  feller,  he'd  jest  sigh, 

With  a  waterin'  o'  the  eye — 

Say :  "  It's  all  my  fault,"  an'  try 
T'  stave  'em  off  awhile. 

"  Some  day  I'll  lay  down  an'  die- 
Then  they'll  smile." 

An'  he  did.     God's  sometimes  heap 
Kinder  ter  his  poor  lost  sheep 
Than  the  ones  'at  has  their  keep. 

So,  one  darkened  day, 
He  jest  told  him  :      "  Go  to  sleep," 

In  His  own  kind  way. 

Then  the  poor,  sad,  tearful  eyes 
Smiled  their  thanks  to  God's  own  skies 
With  a  kind  o'  sweet  surprise — 
An'  the  heart  growed  still. 


43  WERNER'S  READINGS 

Said  one  of  'em :      "  Thar  lie  lies; 
'Tis  God's  will." 
****** 

Always  wuz  abusin'  him, — 
Rough  an'  rougher  usin'  him, 
Love  an'  all  refusin'  him, 

Though  his  tears  'u'd  fall. 
Didn't  think  o'  losin'  him — » 

Not  at  all ! 


'CEPTIN'  JIM." 


LEWIS    R.    CLEMENT. 

WE  boys  'u'd  run  an'  romp  an'  play 
From  early  morn  till  close  o'  day, 
"We'd  tramp  for  miles  with  dog  an'  gun 
An'  think  that  huntin'  was  such  fun — 
'Ceptin'  Jim. 

He  wuz  a  cripple  from  his  birth 
An'  wuz  no  sort  o'  use  on  earth. 
His  mother  was  the  Widder  Flynn, 
Who  hadn't  nary  chick  ner  kiD 
'Ceptin'  Jim. 

She  lived  by  takin'  washin'  in. 
The  Widder's  face  wuz  sharp  an'  thin; 
Hard  work  hed  left  its  creases  there, 
An'  no  one  thought  her  sweet  ner  fair 
'Ceptin'  Jim. 

One  day  we  went  below  the  mill, 
"Where  shadders  fell  so  cool  an'  still, 
A-fishin'  thar  fer  perch  an'  trout, 
An'  no  one  knew  we  were  about 
'Ceptin'  Jim. 


AND  RECITATIONS  No.  21.  43 

When  someone  came  an'  raised  the  sluice 
An'  turned  the  rush  o'  water  loose, 
While  everything  began  to  go 
An'  we  were  all  down  thar  below 
'Ceptin'  Jim. 

He  got  a  pole  an'  limped  aroun' 
An'  pried  the  gate  back  to  the  groun' ; 
Then  slipped.     *     *     We  used  to  gather  by 
A  leetle  grave  where  grass  grew  high, — 
'Ceptin'  Jim. 


A  LUMBER  CAMP  ROMANCE. 


HARRIET  FRANCENE  CROCKER. 

S'POSE  ye've  noticed  that  there  cunnin'  little  rascal  tag- 
gin'  Dan  about,  heven't  ye?  Didn't  know  Dan  was  a 
married  man?  He's  been  an  old  bach,  so  long  now  I  reckon 
he  couldn't  muster  up  spunk  to  pop  the  question  if  he  ever 
got  the  chance. 

No,  Dan  ain't  married  'n'  never  will  be,  but  no  amount  o' 
chaffin'  'n'  banterin'  kin  ruffle  him  up  about  his  bringin'  up 
that  there  little  kid  o'  his'n. 

Mebby  ye  rec'lec'  the  big  flood  two  year  ago  this  month — 
time  the  upper  dam  basted  'n'  everything  broke  loose  'n' 
come  a-tearin'  down  here.  There  was  a  big  gang  of  us — 
rough,  don't  care  kind  o'  fellers,  like  what's  allers  in  the 
lumberin'  business,  ye  know ;  not  so  awful  bad,  but — well, 
there  wa'n't  none  of  us  studyin'  fer  the  ministry,  sure's  ye 
live !  < 

Wal,  the  night  o'  the  flood  was  a  time  scarey  'nough 
to  make  a  feller's  hair  stan'  up  purty  straight,  I  tell  you  ! 
Great  jams  o'  logs  come  tearin'  along  down  river,  grindin' 
'n'  crashin'  'gainst  one  'nother  like  all  possessed.  Once  in  a 
while  a  house  would  come  reelin'  downstream  like  a  drunken 
critter,  'n'  the  water  was  full  o'  floatin'  fences  'n'  old  sheds 
'n'  what  not.     But  all  to  once  Dan  Fletcher  he  hollered  out 


44  WERNER'S  READINGS 

fit  fer  to  wake  the  dead,  V  p' in  ted  to  a  little  home-made 
cradle  spinnin'  along  on  the  water. 

"I'm  a-goin'  fer  to  try  to  save  the  little  kid,"  Dan 
yelled,  'n'  he  M<as  off  down  along  the  bank  mnnin'  'n' 
watchin'  that  there  tossin'  cradle. 

Wal,  I  don't  know  just  how  long  it  took,  or  just  how  he 
done  it — none  of  us  ever  did — but  we  do  know  that  Dan 
resked  his  life  to  get  a  clutch  on  that  cradle — an'  he  got  it — 
come  a-puffin'  up  awhile  after,  white  as  a  sheet,  with  the  child 
in  his  arms  an'  staggered  into  the  shanty  with  his  burden. 

The  little  kid  was  a  good-lookin'  young  one,  with  big  black 
eyes  an'  the  purtiest  smile  I  ever  see.  He  seemed  to  take  to 
Dan  natchelly,  'n'  Dan  he  never  thought  o'  nothin'  else  but 
keepin'  the  child. 

TJs  fellers  tried  to  chaff  him  a  little  at  first,  but  Dan  he 
took  it  all  so  good-natured  there  wa'n't  no  fun  in  it  'n'  we 
quit. 

The  little  feller  was  'bout  two  year  old,  as  cunnin'  a  little 
chap  as  I  ever  see.  Dan  took  all  the  care  o'  him,  slep'  with 
him  nights  'n'  cooked  up  stuff  fer  him  to  eat,  'n'  true  's  ye 
live,  was  jest  as  handy  a-tendin'  of  him  as  ef  he'd  'a'  ben  a 
married  man  with  half-a-dozen  young  ones  'n'  a  shif'less 
wife. 

'Course  we  didn't  know  what  the  little  kid's  name  was,  so 
we  called  him  'most  anything — Sonny,  'n'  Bub,  'n'  Kiddy — 
but  Dan  he  called  him  Nance. 

"Laff,  ef  ye  want  to,  boys,"  he  says,  says  he,  "  Nance  it 
is,  'n'  Nance  it  shall  be!  the  little  feller's  mine, — leastways 
till  someone  turns  up  as  has  got  a  better  right  to  him." 

One  night,  about  three  weeks  after  the  flood,  a  woman 
come  wanderin'  into  camp,  stark,  starin'  mad — crazy  as  a 
loon. 

S'pose  she  see  the  light  'n'  wandered  to  it,  poor  critter! 
In  she  come  'n'  stood  'n'  looked  at  us,  'n',  so  help  me  Bob, 
I  hope  I'll  never  see  again  sech  misery  'n'  sufferin'  writ  on  a 
human  face  as  I  see  on  that  poor  crazy  critter's  face  that 
night. 

First  she  didn't  say  nothin',  only  looked  at  us  with  them 


AND  RECITATIONS  No.  21.  43 

big  wild  eyes  o'  hern,  mutter-in'  somethin'  to  herself;  then 
she  began  to  sing — some  kind  o'  lullaby  tune.  It  sounded 
awful,  comin'  from  that  poor,  crazy  thing,  'n'  we  all  set  'n' 
looked  at  her  without  a  word,  every  man  of  us  with  a  pipe  in 
his  hand. 

All  to  once  she  ketched  sight  o'  the  little  kid  'n'  made  a 
dive  fer  it — but  Dan  got  there  first,  'n'  ketched  up  the  child 
'n'  held  him — he  seemed  to  realize  what  was  up.  The  little 
kid  woke  up  'n'  begun  to  cry. 

"Hush,  Nance,"  Dan  says,  to  keep  it  still;  "there, 
there,  Nance." 

The  woman  throwed  up  her  hands. 

"Nance!"  she  screamed.  "Nance!  That's  my  name 
— that's  what  Dan  used  to  called  me  'fore  I  left  him  fer 
another  man — say,  do  you  know  Dan  ?  ' ' 

She  seemed  to  fergit  the  child  a  minit  'n'  peered  into 
Dan's  face. 

Dan  he  looked  around  at  us.  His  face  was  as  pale  as  the 
ashes  in  our  pipes  'n'  his  voice  was  husky. 

"Boys,"  he  says,  "this  'ere  poor  woman  is  my  old  sweet- 
heart, 'n'  the  little  kid's  mother." 

Then  we  all  saw  how  much  the  little  thing  looked  like  the 
crazy  woman — the  same  big  black  eyes  'n'  all. 

Dan  made  her  set  down  on  his  bunk  'n'  put  the  little  kid 
in  her  arms ;  but  he  watched  her  all  the  time  as  clost  as  a  cat 
does  a  mouse. 

It  was  pitiful  to  see  her.  She  cried  'n'  laffed  'n'  rocked 
the  little  feller  in  her  arms  'n'  sung  to  him  'n'  patted  him  'n' 
kissed  him  a  hundred  times. 

After  a  while  the  woman  fell  over  on  the  bunk  'n'  went 
to  sleep,  sheer  played  out.  She'd  been  a-wanderin'  like  that 
ever  sence  the  flood  prob'ly,  searchin'  fer  her  babe,  'n'  lied 
be'n  drenched  to  the  skin  time  'n'  again  with  rain,  'n'  slep' 
outdoors  ef  she  slep'  at  all. 

Dan,  he  made  her  comf'able  'n'  let  her  sleep.  Then  he 
set  down  side  o'  the  bunk  'n'  leaned  his  grizzly  head  on  his 
hand,  lookin'  at  her. 

The  rest  of  us  turned  in  after  a  while,  but  Da:i  ho  sot  iheie 


16  WERNER'S  READINGS 

by  the  bunk  'n'  watched.  There  was  only  one  taller  candle 
In  the  room  'n'  that  made  a  dim  light;  but  once  or  twice 
when  I  turned  over  in  the  night  I  could  see  him  a-settin' 
there,  'n'  her  a-sleepin'  with  the  child  on  her  arm.  Long 
towards  mornin'  I  woke  up,  'n'  laid  there  in  my  bunk 
watchin'  that  strange  couple — there  wa'n't  no  one  else  awake 
in  the  shanty. 

All  to  once  the  woman  opened  her  eyes  'n'  looked  up  at 
Dan  with  the  purtiest  smile  on  her  poor  face  I  ever  see.  I 
could  see  she  was  all  right  again — not  a  mite  crazy. 

"Dan,"  she  says,  reel  womanlike  'n'  tender,  as  ef  she 
loved  him,  "it's  you,  Dan,  ain't  it?  I  knowed  it  was — 'n* 
ye've  got  my  baby  !  'N'  ye  kin  keep  him,  Dan;  he's  your'n 
now,  fer  I'm  a-goin'.  I  can't  live  long;  I'm  a-dyin'.  I've 
been  a-dyin  weeks  an'  weeks,  but  I  couldn't  lay  down  till  I 
knowed  the  boy  was  safe." 

Dan  bent  over  her. 

"Nance,"  he  says,  "  Nance,  don't  say  that.  You  must 
live  now  fer  the  little  chap.  I'll  give  him  back  to  ye  'n' 
never  set  eyes  on  him  ag'in,  much  as  I  think  o'  him — never, 
ef  ye' 11  only  pull  through  this  time!  " 

The  woman  smiled  again  'n'  reached  up  her  poor  weak 
hands  to  pull  his  shaggy  head  down  to  her'n. 
•  "Dan,"  she  says,  very  low  but  plain,  "Dan  I  loved  ye 
all  the  time  !  What  a  fool  I  was  to  leave  the  best  'n'  truest 
man  that  ever  lived  fer  a  husban'  that  wa'n't  never  good  to 
me.  But  that's  all  past  now — he's  dead — 'n'  I'm  most 
through,  too,  'n'  I'm  thankful  fer  it — I've  bed  sech  a  hard 
life — I  needn't  ask  ye  to  be  good  to  my  baby,"  says  she,"  ye 
will  be — ye  couldn't  help  it." 

Dan  was  cryin'  like  a  gal. 

"I  will,  Nance,"  he  says,  "  I  will  be  good  to  the  little 
chap  fer  your  sake  an'  fer  his'n,  too.     I  alius  will,  honest." 

Dan  laid  his  head  down  on  the  pillar,  side  o'  her'n ;  they 
were  still  a  long  time,  then  I  heered  a  kissin'  sound,  an'  a 
kind  o'  sob  an'  a  sithe,  an'  then  Dan  raised  up  his  head  an'  I 
see  she  was  dead. 

"We  dug  a   grave   fer  her  in  the  woods,  'n'  give  her  a  de- 


AND  RECITATIONS  No.  21.  47 

cent  funeral.  There  wa'n't  no  flowers  or  music  or  even  a 
parson  'n'  no  mourners  'cept  Dan  'n'  the  little  kid,  but  every 
one  of  us  rough  lumbermen — yes,  I  ain't  ashamed  to  own  it — 
wiped  away  a  honest  tear  when  we  laid  her  in  the  ground, 
'n'  mebby  'taint  so,  but  it  seems  to  me  that's  about  as  good  a 
funeral  as  anyone  need  to  ask  fer. 

No,  Dan  Fletcher  never  was  'n'  never  will  be  a  married 
man,  but  that  ain't  a-goin'  to  hender  him  from  bein'  the  best 
kind  of  a  father  fer  that  there  little  kid ! 


FOREIGN  VIEWS  OF  THE  STATUE. 


FRED    EMERSON    BROOKS. 

ON  the  deck  of  a  steamer  that  came  up  the  Bay, 
Some  garrulous  foreigners  gathered  one  day, 
To  vent  their  opinions  on  matters  and  things 
On  this  side  the  Atlantic,  in  language  pedantic. 
'Twas  much  the  same  gathering  that  any  ship  brings. 

"  Ah,  look!  "  said  the  Frenchman,  with  pride  his  lips  curled; 

"  See  ze  Liberte  Statue  enlighten  ze  world ! 

Ze  grandest  colossal  zat  evair  vas  known ! 

Thus  Bartholdi,  he  speak  :   'Yive  la  France — Amerique! 

La  belle  France  make  ze  statue,  and  God  make  ze  stone! '  " 

Said  the  Scotchman  :   "  Na  need  o'  yer  sp'akin'  sae  free! 
The  thing  is  na  sma',  sir,  that  we  canna  see. 
Do  ye  think  that  wi'oot  ye  the  folk  couldna  tell? 
Sin'  'tis  Liberty's  Statye,  I  ken  na  why  that  ye 
Did  na  keep  it  at  hame  to  enlighten  yoursel!  " 

The  Englishman  gazed  through  his  watch-crystal  eye : 

"  'Pon  'onor,  by  Jove,  it  is  too  beastly  high! 

A  monstwosity,  weally,  too  lawge  to  be  seen ! 

In  pwoportion,  I  say,  it's  too  lawge  for  the  Bay. 

So  much  lawger  than  one  we've  at  'omc  of  the  Queen!  " 


48  WERNER'S  READINGS 

An  Italian  next  joined  the  colloquial  scrimmage : 
"  I  dress-a  my  monkey  just  like-a  de  image, 

I  call-a  '  Bartholdi ' — Frenchman  got- a  spunky-— 
Call-a  me  '  Macaroni,'  lose-a  me  plendy  moany ! 
He  break-a  my  organ  and  keel-a  my  monkey ! 

''  My-a  broder  a  feesherman;  hear-a  what  he  say: 

No  more-a  he  catch -a  de  feesh  in  de  Bay. 

He  drop-a  de  sein — he  no  get-a  de  weesh. 

When  he  make-a  de  grab-a,  only  catchy-a  de  crab-a. 

De  big-a  French  image  scare  away  all  de  feesh !  ' ' 

II  By  the  home  rule!  "  said  Pat ;    "and  is  that  Libertee? 
She's  the  biggest  owld  woman  that  iver  I  see! 

Phy  don't  she  sit  down?     'Tis  a  shame  she's  to  stand. 
But  the  truth  is,  Oi'm  towld,  that  the  sthone  is  too  cowld, 
Would  ye  moind  the  shillalah  she  howlds  in  her  hand  !  ' ' 

Said  the  Cornishman :    "  Thaat's  no  a  shillalah,  ye  scaiimp! 
Looaks  to  I  like  Diogenes  'ere  wi'  'is  laamp, 
Searchin'  haard  fur  a  'onestmaan."      "  Faith,  that  is  true," 
Muttered  Pat,  "  phat  ye  say,  fur  he's  lookin'  moi  way, 
And  by  the  same  favor  don't  recognize  you!  " 

' "  Me  no  sabee  you  f oleners ;   too  muchee  talkee ! 

You  no  likee  Idol,  you  heap  takee  walkee. 

Him  allee  same  Chinaman  velly  big  Joshee. 

Him  Unclee  Sam  gal-ee;   catch  um  lain,  no  umblallee! 

Heap  velly  big  shirtee — me  no  likee  washee!  " 

"  Oh  !  "  cried  Sambo,  amazed,  "  dat's  decullud  man's  Lor' ! 
He's  come  back  to  de  earf ;   somefin'  he's  lookin'  for. 
Alius  knowed  by  de  halo  surroundin'  he's  brow. 
Jess  you  looken  dat  crown  !   Jess  you  looken  dat  gown ! 
Lor'  'a'  mussy,  I  knows  I's  a  gone  nigga'  now!  " 

Said  the  Yankee  :    "I've  heerd  you  discussin1  her  figger ; 
And  I  reckon  you  strangers  hain't  seen  nuthm'  bigger. 
Wall,  I  hain't  much  on  boastin'  but  I'll  go  my  pile: 
When  you  furreners  cum  3rou'll  find  her  to  hum  ! 
Dew  I  mean  what  I  say?  Wall  somewhat — I  should  smile  1  " 


AND  RECITATIONS  No.  21.  49 


MISS  WITCHAZEL  AND  MR.  THISTLEPOD. 


ROBERT  J.   BTTRDETTE. 


I  RECENTLY  noticed  this  paragraph  in  a  City  paper : 
"  Miss  Ella  "Witchazel,  a  charming  young  school-teacher 
of  Yillisca,  Iowa,  finding  the  close  confinement  and  arduous 
duties  of  the  schoolroom  injuring  her  health,  tried  the  out- 
door cure.  Instead  of  spending  her  winter's  salary  and  sum- 
mer vacation  in  a  crowded  hotel  at  the  seashore,  she  went  on 
a  farm,  cut  twenty-five  acres  of  prairie  hay,  harvested  forty 
acres  of  wheat,  gained  twenty  pounds  in  weight,  a  coat  of  tan 
for  her  hands  and  face,  and  a  rugged  health  that  can  not  be 
equaled  anywhere  off  a  farm.  There's  the  girl  you  are  look- 
ing for,  young  man." 

Now,  what  I  want  to  say  :  I  am  well  acquainted  with  this 
young  schoolmarm.  Fact  is,  it  was  my  farm  she  spent  the 
summer  on.  Nice  girl,  Ella  is,  as  ever  run  wild  in  the  sun. 
We  was  glad,  wife  an'  me,  to  have  her  come,  an'  she  did 
'bout  as  she  pleased  on  the  farm.  I'd  often  read  in  the  papers 
'  bout  these  young  women  that  taught  school  in  the  winter  an' 
farmed  in  the  summer,  but  I  never  had  any  experience  of 
'em  before. 

"Well,  sir,  she  farmed.  First  daynothin'd  do  but  she  must 
drive  the  boss- rake.  Well,  every  man  an'  woman  that  comes 
from  town  wants  to  drive  the  hoss-rake,  an'  they  call  that 
gittin'  in  the  hay.  My  little  Janey,  eleven  years  old  next 
May,  usually  drives  the  rake  for  us,  but  she  hasn't  been 
overly  peart  this  summer,  an'  I  kinder  kept  her  out  o'  the 
sun.  So  Miss  Ella  gits  herself  boosted  on  the  boss-rake — my 
boy  Joe,  he  boosted  her — an'  then  she  screamed  an'  fell  off. 
Then  she  got  on  ag'in,  hit  the  boss  a  crack  an'  away  she  went 
on  the  dead  jump  out  o'  the  field  into  the  road,  hoss  a-goin', 
dust  a-flyin'  an'  Miss  Ella  screechin'.  Some  o'  the  men 
headed  her  off  an'  stopped  the  hoss.  Then  she  tried  it  ag'in. 
This  time  she  struck  right  straight  through  the  standin'  grass 
where  it  was  tallest  an'  thickest  an'  tangledest;  hoss  a-balkin' 


50  WERNER'S  READINGS 

an'  tuggin'  away  by  turns,  grass  lioldin'  or  comin'  up  by  the 
roots,  rake-teeth  a-snappin'.  We  got  her  out  o'  that,  an' 
lost  a  whole  day  on  the  rake  gettin'  it  mended. 

Then  she  tried  drivin'  a  load  into  the  big  barn.  Had  to 
send  to  the  house  for  a  ladder,  an'  then  all  the  men  had  to  go 
clear  out  o'  the  field  while  she  climbed  up  on  the  load.  Drivin' 
in,  she  got  the  wagon  caught  in  a  hedge-gap  as  wide  as  the 
Missouri  river,  ran  over  two  stands  of  bees,  upset  the  load, 
an'  buried  herself  under  three  hundred  pounds  o'  hay.  It 
was  the  safest  place  for  her  under  the  excitin'  circumstances; 
so  we  jest  left  her  ther'  ontil  the  bees  got  cammed  down  an' 
we  got  some  work  done.  Next  load  she  went  in  on,  an'  then 
turned  all  the  men  out  o'  the  barn  while  she  climbed  up  into 
the  mow,  an'  then  she  wandered  around  ontil  she  stepped  in 
a  chute  an'  shot  down  about  twenty-eight  feet  into  the  cow 
barn  an'  lit  right  on  the  back  of  a  Jersey  calf  that  was  worth 
two  hundred  an'  fifty  dollars  of  any  man's  money  an  hour 
before.  Miss  Ella  wa'n't  killed,  but  she  was  that  jammed  up 
that  she  lay  in  bed  two  days,  an'  but  for  that  providence  we'd 
hev  been  workin'  at  that  hay  yet.  An'  anybody  that  wants 
a  broken-back  calf  can  have  one  at  his  own  hggers. 

Well,  come  wheat  harvest,  she  must  drive  the  self-binder. 
That  was  a  leetle  too  risky,  but  she  had  her  own  way.  But 
she  couldn't  be  trusted  up  above  the  knives,  so  somebody  had 
to  set  up  there  an'  hold  her  on.  My  boy  Joe,  he  held  her  on 
— I  told  Joe  she  was  a-makin'  a  fool  o'  him — an'  if  she  didn't 
make  him  drive  around  every  poppy  an'  every  blossomin' 
weed  she  see  in  that  field  to  save  it !  Never  mind  the  wheat, 
but  save  the  blamed  weeds.  There  was  only  one  stump  on 
that  three  hundred  an'  twenty  acres  of  prairie  land,  just  one 
stump,  an'  if  that  girl  didn't  run  into  it  an'  break  the  reaper. 
Lost  all  the  rest  o'  that  day  a-mendin'  of  it. 

Next  day  she  was  that  proud  an'  confident  she  could  drive 
alone.  "Well,  we  tied  her  into  the  seat  so's't  she  couldn't 
fall  off,  an'  she  started.  Two  rod  from  the  start  a  big,  black 
snake  stuck  up  his  head — an'  you  know  how  slick  them  knives 
amputate  a  snake  !  Miss  Ella  she  gives  a  faint  little  squeak, 
an'  faints    dead   away.     My  boy   Joe — he's  always  hangm* 


AND  RECITATIONS  No.  21.  rol 

around — he  jumped  for  the  horses,  took  Miss  Ella  down  an' 
carried  her  to  the  house.  Money,  nor  healthy  tan,  nor  rugged, 
appetite,  nor  nothin'  couldn't  coax  Miss  Witchazel  into  that 
field  ag'in,  an'  we  got  through  harvestin'  all  right.  Land, 
how  the  men  laffed.  An'  yet,  we  all  liked  the  girl.  But 
the  idee  of  her  farmin' !  Why,  do  you  know,  sir,  one  day 
in  hayin'  she  went  to  town — took  one  o'  my  best  work  horses 
an'  was  gone  all  day,  an'  came  home  with  'bout  twenty  yards 
o'  blue  an'  white  ribbions  an'  tied  'em  on  the  men's  hats  an' 
the  rake-handles,  an'  wanted  us  all  to  wear  b'iled  shirts  with 
the  sleeves  looped  up  with  blue  ribbionTgo  marchin'  out  to 
the  hay-lield,  me  at  the  head  with  the  most  an'  longest  rib- 
bions, a-singin',  "  We  merry  haymakers,  tra,  la,  la,  la,  la!  " 
She  saw  it  done  that  way  once  in  a  concert,  or  theayter  an* 
thought  that  was  the  way  hayin'  was  always  done.  An'  she 
was  so  vexed  that  she  cried  when  we  wouldn't  wear  'em. 
Law,  when  I  put  on  that  hat  ma  laid  back  an'  laffed  till  the 
tears  ran  down  her  old  cheeks. 

"Job  Thistlepod,"  she  said,  "  if  you'll  go  out  an'  work  in 
the  rig,  you'll  scare  away  the  grasshoppers." 

My  boy  Joe,  he  did  wear  his  hat  out,  but  he  hid  it  under 
the  hedge  when  he  got  out  o'  sight  o'  the  house.  I  told  Joe 
he  was  the  biggest  fool  I  ever  see. 

Well,  Miss  Ella  got  along  fairly  well  after  wheat  harvest. 
Gathered  pome  graceful  sprays,  she  called  'em,  of  poison  ivy 
one  day,  an'  couldn't  see  out  of  one  eye  for  nigh  a  week. 
)ne  day  she  took  a  tin  pail  to  go  out  after  berries,  an'  when 
she  went  through  the  cow  pasture,  the  cows  thought  there  was 
salt  in  the  pail,  an'  chased  her  till  she  was  nigh  ready  to  drop. 
An'  she  went  to  the  barn  once  an'  tried  to  harness  a  young 
Tuckahoe  colt  that  had  never  had  a  halter  on  him,  an'  how 
she  got  out  of  that  stable  alive  's  more'n  I  can  tell.  But  what 
I  want  to  say  is,  that  that's  about  the  way  the  young  women 
who  farm  so  graceful  in  the  newspapers  usually  farm  on  the 
farm.  But  we  liked  her.  An'  we  hated  to  see  her  go.  An' 
she  will  make  a  splendid  wife  for  some  man,  if  she  can't  run 
a  farm;  but  I  don't  know  about  your  young  men  comin'  out 
to  look  after  her,  for  when  she  said  good-bye  to  me  to  go  back 


52  WERNER'S  READINGS 

to  town,  she  thro  wed  her  arms  around  my  neck  an'  gim  me 
a  kiss  that  I  says  to  my  boy  Joe,  standin'  by  the  wagon  to 
take  her  to  town — he  was  always  somewhere  around — ■ 
"Joe,"  I  says,  "you'd  give  your  share  in  the  farm  for 
that,"  an'  Joe,  he  didn't  seem  to  care  for  anything  o'  the 
kind,  an'  Miss  Ella,  she  up  an'  give  me  another  squeeze  an' 
a  kiss,  an'  I  saw  her  lookin'  over  my  shoulder  at  my  boy  Joe? 
an'  haw !—  haw  !-=diaw ! 


PLAYiNG  ENTERTAINMENT. 


ANNA    HOPPER. 

WHEN  the  dishes  all  is  washed  an'  wiped,  an'  the  path 
swep'  to  the  stoop, 
An'  the  hens  an'  little  chickens  fed  an'  let  out  of  the  coop, 
An'  the  milk  is  strained  an'  put  in  crocks  »n'  tuk  down  to 

the  spring, 
An'  we've  fed  the  calf  an'  hunted  up  the  eggs,  an'  ever'thing, 
Our  jobs  is  done,  an'  me  an'  Bet  goes  ilyin'  up  ther  stairs 
Au'  gits  a  lot  of  shawls  an'  things  'cause  mammy  never  cares. 
I've  got  a  sho'  nuff  bracelet,  an'  Bet  she's  got  a  brooch 
An'  we  plays  entertainment  on  the  ole  back  po'ch. 

The  orgin   is  the  goods-box,  where   we  keeps  the  cups  an' 

pans, 
An'  the  pianer  is  the  bench  there,  fur  the  men  to  wash  the'r 

ban's; 
An'  we  pins  the  shawls  on  so's  they  trail,  an'  pushes  up  our 

sleeves, 
An'  mamma  peeks  to  see  us,  but  we  won'  play  till  she  leaves. 
'N'  Bet  loves  to  play  the  pianer,  jes'  poundin'  up  an'  down 
Like  ther  girls  we  seed  a-playin'  in  ther  'cademy  in  town. 
Sometimes  we  sings  with  our  plaits  let  out,  an'  our  hair  fixed 

in  a  roach 
When  we  plays  entertainment  on  the  ole  back  po'ch. 


AND  RECITATIONS  No.  21.  53 

The  yard  out  there's  the  people,  an'  we  'tend  like  'at  they 

clap, 
An'  one  day  the  men  was  comin'  from  the  fiel'  with  Bud  an' 

Pap? 
An'  they  hid  aroun'  the  corner  of  the  house  so's  they  could 

see, 
An'  I  looked  up  while  I'se  singin'  an'  seed  'um  peek  at  me, 
An'    'en  they   whooped  an'  laffed,  an'  we  wuz  mad  an'  run 

away. 
But  settin'  on  the  pianer  ther  when  we  come  down  next  day 
Wuz  a  grea'   big  doll  they'd  got  us,    'twuz  fur  "  Bet  an1 

Ilanner  Gooch  " 
To  help  out  the  entertainment  on  the  ole  back  po'ch. 


TILDY. 


FREDEKICK    W.   LOSING. 

MATILDY,  jest  you  mind  them  hens, 
And  shoo  'em  out  away  from  here; 
They're  scratching  all  the  garden  up. 

"Why,  Ti'dy's  gone!   Waal,  waal,  that's  queer. 
She  ain't  contrary,  as  a  rule, 

And  gen'lly  obeys  my  will; 
But,  though  she  heard  me,  off  she  put — 
Why,  there's  Lorenzo  Pettengill! 

He's  met  her,  and  she's  stopped  to  talk! 

Them  hens  will  eat  up  everything ! 
He's  wanting  her  to  take  a  walk. 

Waal,  it  is  nice  to  walk  in  spring. 
He's  took  her  hand.      Come,  that  won't  do. 

She  seems  to  stand  uncommon  still ; 
I'd  better  let  them  know  I'm  round. 

Good  evening,   Mr.  Pettengill ! 

He  don't  mind  me — it  ain't  no  use. 

Ah,  waal,  my  time  has  been  and  gone; 


54  WERNER'S  READINGS 

But,  then,  I'd  really  no  idee 
How  Tildv  was  a-getting  on. 

These  gals  grow  up,  and  pretty  soon 
They  lay  us  old  ones  on  the  shelf. 

Lorenzo  is  a  smart  young  man — 
I  guess  I'll  tend  them  hens  myself. 


HARD  TIMES. 


/""""* OME  in,  come  in,  sir;  it's  blowin'  a  perfect  gale  to- 
V^>     night. 

Hang  your  coat  up  by  the  door,  then  come  to  the  lire — that's 
right — 

Things  is  kinder  untidy — haven't  much  furniture  yet; 

But  the  shack  is  shelter,  at  least,  from  the  wind,  and  snow, 
and  wet ! 

Yes,  times  is  hard,  an'  I  rec'on  there  won't  be  much  to 
show 

For  our  last  year's  work  on  the  farm,  with  the  price  of  wheat 
so  low. 

An'  the  wife's  bin  sick  a  long  time — had  the  lay-grip  real 
bad. 

Got  kinder  all  tuckered  out — bin  workin'  too  hard  she  had. 

I've  jist  bin  fetchin'  the  doctor — that's  him  now  gone  up- 
stairs. 

He  didn't  ask  for  cash  right  now,  or  inquire  about  my  af- 
fairs. 

Ef  he  had,  the  Lord  knows  what  I'd  'a'  done-  -we  haven't  any, 
you  see. 

There's  no  one  here  to  do  the  work  but  Sue  an'  baby  an'  me. 

Hadn't  no  money  to  hire  a  girl.      She  tried  to  manage  alone. 

Terr'ble  hard  on  her,  it  was — she's  just  wasted  to  skin  an' 
bone. 

She'd  a  good  home  in  Ontairy — never  had  to  work  so  hard; 

Not  to  work,  as  she's  done  out  here,  in  house  an'  stable  an' 
yard. 

It's  rough  on  a  man,  this  climate,  when  poorly  clothed  an'  fed, 


AND  RECITATIONS  No.  21.  55 

An'  housed  in  a  shack  so  cold  that  the  breath  smokes  round 

your  head. 
Gosh!  an'  I  couldn't  help  it.      I  would  have  to  go  to  town 
With  a  load  of  wood  er  hay  for  Smith  er  Jones  er  Brown. 
Tryin'  to  earn  a  dollar  er  two,  to  keep  the  wolf  from  the  door 
An'  buy  the  things  we  needed,  cos  we  couldn't  git  tick  at  the 

store. 
An'  while  I  was  away  she'd  have  to  look  after  the  stock, 
Chop  out  the  water-hole  at  the  crick  when  'twas  frozen  up 

like  a  rock. 
Drive  the  cattle  to  water — an'  she  only  a  little  thing — 
Hardly  up  to  my  shoulder,  yet  she  would  laugh  an'  sing 
An'  try  to  make  light  of  her  labor,  because  it  worried  me ! 
But  it  told  on  me,  all  the  same,  an'  now  she's  down,  you  see. 
I'm  terr'ble  anxious  to  hear  what  the  doctor'll  have  to  say. 
'Course,  it's  only  a  cold — she'll  be  up  in  another  day. 
But  it's  so  queer  not  to  see  her  round — nervous-like,  I  feel. 
Ef  times  jis  wasn't  so  hard,  I'd  make  some  kind  of  a  deal 
.An'  git  her  East  to  her  folks — jis  wouldn't  that  be  a  surprise ! 
But  I'm  helpless  with  these  mortgages — chattel  and  otherwise. 
Well,  doctor,  how  does  she  seem?     Guess  I  was  wrong  in  my 

head 
To  be  so  scared  this  mornin',  doctor.    My  God,  she's  dead!" 


MISS  MALONEY  GOES  TO  THE  DENTIST. 


SURE,  an'  did  I  tell  yez  how  I  wint  to  the  dintist  yister- 
day?  Be  aisy  now,  will  yez,  an'  wait  a  bit,  an'  I'll  tell 
yez  all  about  it. 

Says  I :  "Och,  docthur,  docthur  dear,  it's  me  tooth  that, 
aches  intirely,  sure  it  is,  an'  I've  a  mind  to  have  it  drawn  out, 
av  yez  plaze,  sur. ' ' 

"  Does  it  hurt  ye?"  says  lie  till  me. 

"Och,  mnrther,  can  ye  ax  me  that,  now,  an'  me  all  the 
way  down  here  to  see  ye  about  it?"  says  I.  "  Sure  I  haven't 
slept  day  or  night  these  three  days.  Bedad,  haven't  I  tried 
all  the  manes  to  quiet  the  jumpin'  divil?     Sure  didn't  they 


56  WERNER'S  READINGS 

tell  me  to  put  raw  whiskey  intil  me  mouth ;  but  would  it  stay 
there,  jist  tell  me  now?  JSTo,  the  divil  a  bit  could  I  kape  it 
up  in  my  mouth,  though  it's  far  from  the  likes  o'  me  to  ba 
dhrinkin'  the  whiskey  widout  extrame  provocation,  or  by  ac- 
cidint." 

So  thin  the  docthur  took  his  iron  instrumints  in  a  hurry, 
wid  as  little  consarnment  o'  mind  as  Barney  would  swape  the 
knives  an'  forks  from  the  table. 

"Be  aisy,  docthur,"  says  I,  "  there's  time  enough  ;  sure 
ye'll  not  be  in  such  a  hurry,"  says  I,  "whin  your  time  comes, 
I'm  thinkin'." 

"  Och,  well,"  says  the  docthur,  "an'  av  yez  not  ready 
now,  Miss  Maloney,  yez  may  come  on  the  morrow. " 

"  Indade,  docthur,  I'll  not  sthir  from  this  sate  wid  this 
ould  dead  tooth  alive  in  me  jaw,"  says  I";  "  so  yez  may  jist 
prepare,  but  yez  nade  not  come  slashin'  at  a  j^oor  Christian 
body  as  av  yez  would  wring  her  neck  off  first,  an'  dhraw  her 
tooth  at  yez  convaynience,  mebbe  a  quarther  of  an  hour  or  so 
aftherward.  Now  clap  on  yer  pinchers — bad  luck  to  thim — 
but  mind  yez  git  hould  av  the  right  one — sure,  yez  may  aisily 
see  it  by  the  achin'  an'  jumpin',"  says  I. 

"  Och,"  says  he,  "  I'll  git  hould  av  the  right  one,"  an'  wid 
that  he  jabs  a  small  razor-lookin'  weapon  intil  me  mouth,  an' 
cuts  up  me  gooms  as  av  it  was  nothin'  but  cowld  mate  for 
hash  for  breakfast. 

Says  I :  "  Docthur,  thunder  an'  turf  !  "  for  me  mouth  was 
full  av  blood,  "f what  in  the  divil  are  yez  afther?  D'yez 
want  to  make  an  anatomy  av  a  livin'  craythur,  ye  grave- 
robber,  ye?"  says  I. 

"  Sit  sthill,"  says  he,  jammin'  somethin'  like  a  corkscrew 
intil  me  jowl,  an'  twistin'  the  very  soul  out  av  me. 

Sure  I  sat  still,  bekase  the  murtherin'  thafe  held  me  down 
with  his  knee  an'  the  grip  av  his  iron  in  me  lug.  If  yez'll 
belave  me,  the  worrest  av  all  was  whin  he  gave  me  an  awful 
wring,  hard  enough  to  wring  a  wet  blanket  as  dry  as  gun- 
powdher.  Arrah !  didn't  I  think  the  Judgmint  Day  had 
come  till  me?  Holy  fathers !  may  I  niver  bratho  another 
breath  if  I  didn't  sec  the  red  fire  in  the  pit!     Sure  I  felt  me 


AND  RECITATIONS  No.  21.  6? 

head  fly  off  me  shoulders,  an',  lookin'  up,  saw  somethin*  mon- 
sthrous  bloody  in  the  docthur's  wrenchin'  iron. 

"  Is  that  me  head  yez  have  got  thare?  "  says  I. 

"  No,  it's  only  your  tooth,"  says  he. 

"  Yez  lie,"  says  I. 

"God  bliss  yes,"  says  he. 

"  Mebbe  it  is  me  tooth,"  says  I,  as  me  eyes  began  to  open, 
an'  by  puttin'  me  hand  up,  troth  I  found  the  outside  av  me 
face  on,  tho'  I  felt  as  if  all  the  inside  had  been  hauled  out, 
barrin'  the  jumpin'  pain  in  the  tooth,  which  had  grown  to  fill 
the  gap. 

Och  !  miy  the  divil  take  the  tooth,  an'  the  bad  luck,  too, 
if  I  iver  think  av  it  any  more.  Sure  I've  had  enough  of  its 
company,  bad  cess  to  the  little  divil ! 


THE  DEMON  LOVER. 


[To  be  given  with  weird  musical  accompaniment.] 

S~\  WHERE  have  ye  been,  my  long,  long  love, 
V_^/     This  long  seven  years  and  mair  ?  " 
"  O  I'm  come  to  seek  my  former  vows, 
Ye  granted  me  before." 

"  O  hold  your  tongue  of  your  former  vows, 

For  they  will  breed  sad  strife ; 
O  hold  your  tongue  of  your  former  vows, 

For  I  am  become  a  wife. ' ' 

He  turned  him  right  and  round  about, 

And  the  tear  blinded  his  e'e. 
tt  t  vrrr,^  pf.^^"  b^tccd^qn  on  Irish  ground, 

If  it  had  not  been  for  thee. 

"  I  might  have  had  a  king's  daughter, 
Far,  far  beyond  the  sea; 


58  WERNERS  READINGS 

I  might  have  had  a  king's  daughter, 
Had  it  not  been  for  love  o'  thee." 

"  If  ye  might  have  had  a  king's  daughter, 

Yersell  ye  had  to  blame; 
Ye  might  have  taken  the  king's  daughter, 

For  ye  kend  that  I  was  nane. ' ' 

"  O  faulse  are  the  vows  o'  womankind, 
But  fair  is  their  faulse  bodie; 

I  ne'er  would  hae  trodden  on  Irish  ground* 
Had  it  not  been  for  love  o'  thee." 

*J  If  I  was  to  leave  my  husband  dear, 

And  my  two  babes  also, 
O  what  have  ye  to  take  me  to, 

If  with  ye  I  should  go  ?  " 

"  I  have  seven  ships  upon  the  sea, 
The  eighth  brought  me  to  land; 

With  four-and-twenty  bold  mariners, 
And  music  on  every  hand." 

She  has  taken  up  her  two  little  babes, 
Kissed  them  baith  cheek  and  chin. 

"  O  fare  ye  weel,  my  ain  two  babes, 
For  I'll  never  see  ye  again." 

She  set  her  foot  upon  the  ship, 
No  mariners  could  she  behold; 

But  the  sails  were  o'  the  taffetie, 
And  the  masts  o'  the  beaten  gold. 

She  had  not  sailed  a  league,  a  league, 
A  league  but  barely  three, 

«  ,      When  dismal  grew  hisc0'^^'^^"?  "    "    — 
Deiavb  jui,,  .,   a r&     „,,  oi'^^iitenanco, 

Ana  urulU  ;o  grew  his  e'e. 

The  masts,  that  were  like  the  beaten  gold, 
Bent  not  on  the  heaving  seas; 


AND  RECITATIONS  No.  21,  59 

And  the  sails,  that  were  o*  the  taffetie, 
Filled  not  in  the  eastland  breeze. 

They  had  not  sailed  a. league,  a  league, 

A  league  but  barely  three, 
Until  she  espiec  his  cloven  foot, 

And  she  wept  right  bitterlie. 

"  O  hold  your  tongue  of  your  weeping,"  says  he, 

"  Of  your  weeping  now  let  me  be; 
I  will  show  you  how  the  lilies  grow 

On  the  banks  of  Italy." 

"O  what  hills  are  yon,  yon  pleasant  hills, 

That  the  sun  shines  sweetly  on  ?  " 
'*  O  yon  are  the  hills  of  heaven,"  he  said, 

"  Where  you  will  never  win." 

"O  whaten  a  mountain  is  yon,"  she  said, 

"  All  so  dreary  wi'  frost  and  snow  ?  " 
"  O  yon  is  the  mountain  of  hell,"  he  cried, 

"Where  you  and  I  will  go." 

And  aye  when  she  turned  her  round  about, 

Aye  taller  he  seemed  to  be ; 
Until  that  the  tops  o  the  gallant  ship 

Nae  taller  were  than  he. 

The  clouds  grew  dark,  and  the  wind  grew  loud, 

And  the  levin  filled  her  e'e; 
And  waesome  wailed  the  snow-white  sprites, 

Upon  the  gurlie  sec. 

He  struck  the  topmast  wi'  his  hand, 

The  foremost  wi'  his  knee ; 
And  he  brake  that  gallant  ship  in  twain, 

And  sank  her  in  the  sea. 


60  WERNER'S  READINGS 


A  STORY  OF  THE  YORKSHIRE  COAST. 


"  T3EAUTIFUL!"   mebby  it  be,   bairn. 

J.3      Folks  moastly  praise  t'  sea ; 
But  I'se  lived  nigh  hand  it  ower  lang, 
It's  maan  like  a  grave  to  me. 

Feyther, — well,  he  was  drouned,  honey, 

I'  t'  year  as  I  wer  wed. 
We  put  him  a  stean,  for  respect,  you  know. 

In  t'  Churchgarth  up  on  t'  head. 

Muther, — she  deed  at  oor  awn  fireside, 

As  wer  nobbut  reet  an'  due ; 
I  addles  ma  bit  an'  sup  frev  t'  sea, 

Winter  an'  summer  through. 

Ma  Mairster  sailed  for  ITartlypool, 

When  t'  mackerel  were  agate ; 
I'd  ha  like  to  lig  by  ma  poor  auld  man, 

He  was  a  trusty  mate. 

But  never  a  priest  might  bless  his  grave; 

He  rowls  i'  t'  great  salt  sea ; 
T'  rudder  yoake  an'  a  cassen  net, 

Wer  all  that  cam  back  to  me. 

I'd  browt  him  first  five  stolart  sons; 

Honey,  when  I  lies  dead, 
But  yan'll  hearken  t'  bidding  bell, 

An'  stan'  at  t'  coffin  head. 

Oor  first-born  sailed  for  t'  Whalery ; 

I  know'd  I'd  na  call  ta  pine, 
We  all  are  like  to  do  oor  wark, 

An'  it's  better  sune  or  syne. 

But  many  a  winter's  neet  I  cried, 
For  oor  lad  sa  far  awa^ 


AND  RECITATIONS  No.  21.  61 

As  t'  tide  cam  thunnering  ower  t'  reef, 
An'  its  roar  roase  up  t'  bay. 

At  last  they  sighted  t'  Amazon, 

I  seed  her  flag  afar ; 
They  shouted  on  t'  Pier,  an'  tossed  their  caps, 

As  she  cam  ower  t'  harbor  bar. 

She'd  browt  a  wealth  o'  oil  an'  banes, 

As  t'  owner  wer  fain  to  see ; 
She'd  browt  back  many  a  muther's  son, 

But  niver  ma  boy  to  me. 

She'd  none  browt  hame  oor  bonny  lad, 

He  wer  left  i'  t'  Greenland  waves. 
Honey,  dost  think  they'll  rise  as  wick 

As  them  i'  t'  Churchgarth  graves? 

Oor  Harry  wer  lost  yan  stormy  neet, 

Off  t'  coast  o'  Elsinore; 
I  ofens  thinks  I  hears  his  laugh, 

"When  t'  gales  t'  loodest  roar. 

For  he'd  call  it  "  beautiful"  an'  all, 

Yon  sea  sa  cruel  an'  strong, 
Ma  wark  wer  set  to  hinder  him 

Frev  t'  water  all  day  long. 

An'  t'  others?  Well,  I'll  tell  the',  bairn, 

'Twer  an  aternoon  i'  March, 
An'  all.  frev  t'  Nab  to  Kettleness, 

Wer  foaming  white  as  t'  starch. 

T'  sky  wer  coarse,  an'  t'  swell  wer  fierce, 

An'  t'  wind  blew  waur  an'  waur, 
When  a  cry  roase  up  frev  t'  crowded  staithes, 

That  a  brig  were  fast  on  t'  scaur. 

They  hauled  t'  lifeboat  doun  t'  road, 
They'd  naan  to  seek  her  crew, 


62  WERNERS  READINGS 

T"  Yorkshire  lads  are  niver  slack, 
Wi'  parlous  wark  to  do. 

Oor  boys  wer  there ;   oor  George  laughed  out, 

As  t'  spray  dashed  iv  his  face ; 
An'  Charlie  shooted  out  my  name, 

As  he  saw  me  in  ma  place. 

His  sweetheart  stood  agin  me  there, 

She  wer  a  gradely  lass, 
Ther  wer  none  sa  stern  in  all  t'  toun, 

But  smiled  to  see  her  pass. 

But  she  went  dateless,  t'  poor  fond  thing, 

Or  ever  t'  morning  gray 
Hose  ower  t'  sorrowful  toun  it  left, 

That  black  an'  bitter  day. 

Thrice  went  the  boat  thruf  wind  an'  .wave, 
An'  thrice  she  wonned  her  home, 

Till  every  saul  in  two  brave  barks 

Were  snatched  from  t'  kingdom  come. 

Folk  thronged  aroond  to  treat  t'  lads 
As  wer  spent  wi'  toil  an'  drouth, 

"When  thruf  t'  scud  an'  mist  they  seed  a  ship, 
Drive  right  past  t'  harbor's  mouth. 

There  wer  plenty  there,  sea-faring  men, 

An'  naither  weak  nor  nesh, 
An'  keen  to  tak  a  part  at  last, 

An'  man  the  boat  afresh. 

But  t'  crew  wer  wilful  an'  ower  wrowt, 
They  lept  f  rev  t'  edge  o'  t'  pier, 

An'  pushed  her  off  mid  t'  breakers  there, 
"With  naither  wit  nor  fear. 

Up  yonder  i'  t'  hoos  iv  Hagalythe, 
I'd  wakkened  a  cheery  low, 


AND  RECITATIONS  No.  21. 

I  knowed  ma  boys  'u'd  need  a  drop, 
For  t1  wind  wer  thick  wi'  snow. 

An'  time  had  quietened  half  ma  fear, 

I  reckoned  as  t'  warst  wer  done, 
When  I  heerd  a  sudden  fearful  skrike, 

An'  t'  great  crowd  heaved  an'  run. 

I  seed  t'  men  dash  amang  t'  surf, 

An'  t'  women  faant  an'  flee, 
I  seed  'em  rive  t'  capstan  planks 

An'  lling  'em  out  t'  iv  t'  sea. 

She'd  caught  i'  t'  back  sweep,  close  t'u  t'  bar, 

I'll  hardlings  tell  the'  more, 
There  were  twelve  brave  lads  as  started  her, 

They  drew  but  yan  t'u  t'  shore. 

"Whisht,  bairn,  there's  trouble  ower  deep  for  words; 

Lang  sin  I  cried  my  fill. 
I  went  next  day,  when  t'  wind  wer  lound, 

Where  t'  waves  had  wrowt  their  will. 

I  fund  'em  lying  side  by  side ; 

I  seed  ;em  at  ma  feet. 
Their  eyes  wer  aupen,  an'  fixed  abuv, 

Their  smile  wer  grave  an'  sweet. 

I  seed  'em,  oor  two  bonny  lads, 

I'd  noorsed  'em  at  my  breast; 
111  framed  these  withered  hands  o'  mine 

To  streak  'em  for  their  rest. 

They  said  oor  cry  went  thruf  t'  land, 

To  t'  queen  upon  her  throan ; 
Brass  cam  eneaf  to  dry  sum  tears, 

Ere  t'  graves  were  owergrown. 

It  didna  mickle  gude  to  me, 
I  know'd  ma  sorrow  mesel; 


64  WERNER'S  READINGS 

t'se  none  sa  fond  o'  seeking  folk 
Of  ma  lonesome  hearth  to  tell. 

Oor  John  will  mebby  cloase  ma  eyes, 

A  reet  good  son  is  he ; 
But,  bairn,  if  t'  sea  l>e  "  beautiful," 

Doan't  threep  on  it  to  me. 


CABIN  PHILOSOPHY. 


f  ES'  turn  de  back  log  ober,  an'  draw  yer  stool  up  nigher, 
J       An'  watch  dat  possum  cookin'  in  de  skillet  by  de  fire, 
An'  let  me  spread  my  foots  out  jes'  to  make  my  feelin's  flow, 
An'  I'll  grine  ye  out  a  fac'  or  two  ter  take  afore  ye  go. 
Now  in  desc  busy  workin'  days,   dey's  changed,  de  Scriptu' 

fashions, 
An'  ye  needn't  look  ter  meracles  ter  furnish  ye  wid  rashuns. 
Now  when  ye's  wantin'  loaves  o'  bread,   ye  got    ter    go    an' 

fetch  urn 
An'  cf  ye's  wantin'  fishes,  ye  mus'  dig  yer  wums   an'    ketch 

um. 
Dar's  a  heap  o'  dreadful  music  in  de  berry  fines'  fiddle; 
A  ripe  an'  mellow  apple  may  be  rotten  in  de  middle, 
De  wisest  lookin'  trabbler  may  be  de  biggest  fool; 
Dar's  a  lot  o'  solid,  kickin'  in  de  'umblest  kind,  o'  mule. 
De  people  pays  dar  biggest  bills  a-buyin'  lots  an'  lands; 
Dcy  scatters  all  dar  piccanunes  around  de  peanut  stan's. 
De  twentys  an'  de  fii'tys  goes  ter  payin'  off:  de  rints, 
But  hebbin  an'  de  organ-grinder  gits  de  copper  cints. 
I  nebber  likes  dat  colored  man  who  t'inks  so  much  o'  eatin', 
"What  frolics  frew  his  workin.'  days  an'  snoozes  at  de  meetin'. 
Dem  millingtery  nigger  chaps  wid  dar  muskets  in  dar  hands, 
A-paradin'  frew  de  cities  ter  de  music  o'  de  bands, . 
Had    better    drap  dem  muskets  an'    go  marchin'    wid    dar 

hoes 
An'  make  a  hones'  libin  as  de  cut  de  cotton  rows, 
Or  de  State  gsvine  ter  put  um  a-drillin'  in  de  ditches 


AND  RECITATIONS  No.  SI.  65 

Wid  in  ore' n  ar  single  stripe  a-runnin'  ' 'cross  dar  breeches. 
Now,  ye  fink  doin'  nuffin'  'tall  is  orful  sof  an'  nice, 
But  it  busted  up  do  rinters  o'  de  lubly  paradise. 
Now,  ye  see,  d.y  was  bofe  human  bein's  jes'  like  me  an'  you 
An'  dey  couldn't  regulate  darselbes  wid  not  a  t'ing  ter  do. 
Wid  plenty  o'  work  before  um  an'  a  cotton  crop  ter  make 
Dey'd  nebber  touglit  o'   loaf  in'  roun'    an'    cbattin'   wid   dat 
snake. 


THE  SOD  HOUSE  IN  HEAVEN. 


HAKEY    E.    MILLS. 

WELL,  yes,  it's  sometimes  pretty  lonesome 
here, 
Particularly  'bout  this  time  o*  year, 
When  harve^tin'  is  done, 
An'  hayin'  hez  begun, 
An'  early  corn  is  hard'nin'  in  the  ear. 

It's  twenty  year  since  me  an'  Liza  came 
An'  settled  down  here  on  this  timber  claim. 

The  land  was  wild  an'  new, 

An'  neighbors  mighty  few, 
An*  all  around  here  there  was  lots  o*  game. 

O'  course,  we  made  a  pretty  modest  star*,, 
Fer  wealth  an'  us  was  mighty  fur  apart, 

But  still  we  didn't  mind 

Ef  we  was  some  behind 
The  latest  styles,  fer  we  was  rich  at  heart. 

There's  allers  lots  o'  work  when  you  begin 
To  make  a  farm  where  grass  hez  allers  been. 

But  everything  looked  bright 

With  sort  o'  rainbow  light, 
So  I  pulled  off  my  coat  an'  waded  in. 

One  day  a  chap,  that  couldn't  spell  ner  add, 
Come  round  to  see  what  sort  o'  board  we  had. 


66  WERNER'S  READINGS 

We  see  he'd  come  to  stay, 
An'  wouldn't  go  away, 
Fer  Liza  was  his  ma  an'  me  his  dad. 

I  never  see  so  pert  a  chap  ez  him, 
An'  full  o'  mischief  clean  up  to  the  brim ; 
An'  allers  in  fer  fun, 
'For'  he  could  walk  er  run ; 
An'  so  we  called  him  "Little  Frisky  Jim." 

An'  when  his  mother  made  him  his  first  pants, 
You  ought  to  seen  that  little  feller  prance. 

I  half  believed  the  child 

Was  really  goin'  wild 
The  way  he'd  run  around  an'  jump  an'  dance. 

One  day  the  wind  got  on  a  sort  o'  swirl, 
An'  fetched  around  to  us  a  baby  girl. 
She  had  a  pretty  smile 
Stayed  with  her  all  the  while ; 
An'  so  we  called  her  u  Little  Laughing  Pearl." 

An'  them  two  little  ones,  so  pure  an'  bright, 
They  filled  this  old  sod  house  2}lum  full  o'  light 
I  made  'em  lots  o'  toys 
An'  helped  'em  with  their  noise, 
An'  used  to  like  to  watch  'em  sleep  at  night. 

An'  that's  the  way  things  went  about  five  year.. 
"We  had  a  little  branch  o'  heaven  here ; 

It  wa'n't  no  gold-paved  floor 

Ner  pearly  gate  fer  door 
That  made  it  so ;  but  it  was  love  an'  cheer. 

I  somehow  kind  o'  thought  'twould  allers  be 
The  same  sunshiny  place  fer  them  an'  me ; 

Till,  sudden  like  one  day, 

Jim  run  away  to  play 
Up  yonder,  jest  beyond  where  we  could  see. 


AND  RECITATIONS  No.  SL  67 

Poor  little  Pearl !    she  waVt  yit  quite  four, 
An'  still  she  grieved  f er  Jim  ez  much  er  more 

Than  Liza  did,  er  me; 

An'  it  was  hard  to  see 
Her,  lonesome-like,  a-playin'  round  the  door. 

An'  by  an'  by,  one  still  an'  starry  night, 

Her  little  face  seemed  more  than  common  bright ; 

An'  ez  she  ^uiet  lay, 

"  Oh,  Jim,"  we  heard  her  say, 
An'  then  she  went  forever  from  our  sight. 

An'  there  was  Liza  now  an'  me,  heartsore, 
Jest  left  again  the  way  we  was  before 

The  little  ones  lied  come 

To  share  our  sod  house  home, 
Exceptin'  that  we  loved  each  other  more. 

It  seemed  to  me  thet  Lisa  was  my  share 
Ef  part  o'  them  I  loved  I  lied  to  spare; 

But  jest  fer  Pearl  an'  Jim 

God  called  her  up  to  him, 
An'  may  be  she  was  needed  over  there. 

But  after  she  was  gone  I  couldn't  see 

Ez  it  was  much  odds  how  things  went  with  me ; 

An'  so,  year  after  year, 

I've  jest  been  stayin'  here, 
Half  way  betwixt  what's  been  an'  what's  to  be. 

An'  ever  since  the  first  o'  this  sick  spell, 
I've  half  been  hopin'  that  I'd  not  git  well. 

I  don't  keel*  much  to  stay, 

With  them  all  gone  away ; 
The  place  is  lonesomer  than  I  can  tell. 

Yes,  thank  you,  Ike ;  I  b'l'eve  I'd  like  a  drink. 
I  ain't  no  worse,  jest  kind  o'  weak,  I  think. 

How  bright  'tis  everywhere  ! 

What  soft,  warm,  dreamy  air, 
An'  great  big  flowers,  red  an'  white  an'  pink. 


88  WERNERS  READINGS 

Jest  listen,  Ike,  I  hear 'em  sing  somewhere! 
An'  there's  a  shinin'  river  over  there, 

An'  near  the  glistenin'  sands 

A  great  big  city  stands, 
An'  there's  a  ilock  o'  angels  in  the  air. 

Outside  the  place  a  piece,  yit  middlin'  nigh, 
I  see  a  little  sod  house  'bout  ez  high 
Ez  this,  but  lots  more  trim, — 
There's  Liza,  Pearl,  an'  Jim, 
A-beck'nin'  me  to  come.    Dear  Ike,  good-bye. 


WHAT  DOOLEY  SAYS. 


FINDLAY    PETER    DUNNE. 

WHEEE  was  I  durin'  th'  las'  war?  Where  was  I  durin5 
th'  las'  war?  I  was  here,  right  here.  When 
th'  shot  was  fly  in'  thickest,  an'  th'  smoke  iv  battle  hung 
acrost  th'  sky,  I  was  at  me  post  iv  jooty  d'alin'  out  encourage- 
ment at  two  f'r  a  quarter  to  th'  pathriotic  people  that  stayed 
at  home  with  me.  'Tis  be  no  manes  th'  lightest  part  iv  war 
f'r  to  stay  at  home,  an'  if  it  hadn't  been  that  me  whole 
fam'ly  was  down  at  th'  front  steaiin'  hens  an'  bein'  potted  be 
bushwhackers,  an'  they  was  no  wan  but  meself  to  maintain  th' 
honor  iv  th'  name  iv  Dooley  at  th'  prim'ries,  I'd '  ve  shouldered 
a  musket,  put  a  little  foolish  hat  on  me  head,  an'  gone  off  f'r 
to  slay  th'  inimies  iv  me  counthry,  an'  lay  th'  foundations  iv 
lung-troubles  an'  a  pinsion. 

That  is,  I  w'u'd  as  I  look  back  at  it  now.  'Tis  th'  wars 
iv  th'  past  that  we  ar-re  bravest  in,  an'  annyhow  I  was  a  bit  iv 
a  copperhead.  I  heerd  so  much  iv  Stephen  A.  Douglas  in  th' 
Market  Hall  that  I  c'u'd  argy  with  ye  on  th'  constitutional 
r-rights  iv  th'  South  till  ye'd  be  sick  an'  tired  iv  hearm'  me. 
I  was  foolish  thin,  an'  I  didn't  know  that  no  wan  has  a  con- 
stitutional r-rightf'r  to  go  off  an'  make  a  nuisance  iv  himsilf. 
I  was  a  copperhead,  if  ye  plaze,  but  I  got  over  it,  thank  Gawd^ 


AND  RECITATIONS  NO.  St.  69 

an'  became  a  military  strateejan.  I  c'u'd  lay  out  a  battle  with 
a  piece  iv  chalk  on  th'  back  iv  a  dure  that'd  make  Napoleon 
Boneypart,  the  gr-reat  impror  iv  th'  Frinch,  look  like  th' 
prisidint  iv  a  peace  society.  An'  so  I  spirit  thini  dark  days, 
which  was  no  darker  thin  anny  others,  but  full  iv  good  times, 
with  bands  playin'  an'  people  goin'  to  th'  theay ter  an'  young 
men  gettin'  marrid  an'  arnin'  five  a  day  at  th'  blacksmith 
business — I  spint  thim  dark  days  makin'  war  with  a  chunk 
iv  chalk  an'  havin'  rayqueem  masses  said  f  r  the  repose  iv 
th'  souls  iv  me  cousins  an'  uncles  who  were  down  South  with 
Mulligan,  havin'  th'  time  iv  their  lives. 

Th'  copperheads  durin'  th'  war  were  not  bad  people.  Bein' 
a  copperhead  was  a  matther  iv  principle  to  thim.  A  man 
that's  wrong  on  principle  I  can  stand.  Iv  coorse,  th'  best 
thing  to  do  with  him  is  to  kill  him,  but  ye  can't  help  ray- 
spictin'  him  aven  whin  ye're  battin'  him  over  th'  head.  But 
a  copperhead  that's  a  copperhead  just  because  he's  a  poor, 
sick  soul  an'  because  they'se  as  much  as  wan  twinty-five  in 
it  f'r  him,  an'  because  if  he  stands  f'r  his  counthry  some  wan 
is  li'ble  to  get  his  business  away  fr'm  him,  th'  on'y  thing  to 
do  with  that  kind  iv  a  copperhead  is  to  have  yer  sister  go 
over  an'  pull  his  hair.  It  won't  do  to  shoot  th'  poor  thing. 
He'd  close  up  on  a  bullet  wound.  Lave  him  to  th'  women. 
They'll  take  care  iv  him. 

A  man  may  fight  f'r  fun,  an'  that's  th'  best  way  iv  fightin', 
an'  he  may  fight  f'r  money,  an'  that's  th'  nex'  best  way. 
But  th'  man  who  r-runs  away  f'r  money  is  a  fool  as  well  as 
a  cow'rd,  f'r  he  niver  gets  th'  money.  'Tis  like  "Willum  J. 
O'Brien  an'  th'  Pollacky  he  got  to  sellout  Casey,  whin  Casey, 
poor  man,  thought  to  go  to  the  council. 

"What  d'ye  want?"  says  "Willum  J.  O'Brien. 

"  I  want  th'  money  f'r  dumpin'  Casey,"  saysth'  Pollacky. 

"Me  frin,"  said  Willum  J.  O'Brien,  "if  ye'd  dumped 
Casey  just  because  ye  was  a  mane  divvle  an'  had  threachery 
in  yer  heart,''  he  says,  "  I'd  rayspict  ye/'  ho  says.  "I 
mightn't  like  ye,''  he  says,  "  but  I'd  give  ye  a  piece  iv 
money  f'r  to  keep  r-right  with  ye,'' he  says.  "But,"  he 
says,  "no wan  is  nndher  obligations  f'r  to  hand  anny  har-rd- 


70  WERNER'S  READINGS 

earned  coin  to  a  fool  that  throws  a  frind  f'r  th'  price  an' 
hasn't  sinse  enough  to  get  th'  price  in  advance,''  he  says. 
"Casey,"  says  Willum  J.  O'Brien,  in  aloud  tone,  "here's 
th'  man  that  thrun  ye,"  he  says.  "He's  come  f'r  his 
money,"  he  says.  "I  give  him  to  ye  an' ye  can  keep  th' 
change,''  he  says. 

An'   whin   Casey  got  through  with  th'  Pollacky  th'  on'y 
thing  he  needed  money  f'r  was  to  pay  his  fun'ral  expinses. 


JIM  LORD'S  CAT. 


EDWAKD   BYRON  NICHOLSON". 

I   "WERE  wunst  a  sailor,  yer  honor  knows, 
Though  it's  now  ten  year  as  I  left  the  sea; 
An'  the  last  o'  my  ships  were  the  Annabel  Lee, 
West  Indian  packet.      The  steward  aboard 
Is  now  the  keeper  of  Eddingley  Park — Jim  Lord. 
He  were  fond  o'  animals,  sir,  were  Jim  ; 
He  al'ays  took  out  with  him  five  or  six, 
An'  he  used  to  1'arn  'em  the  rummiest  tricks, 
All  sorts  seemed  to  come  alike  to  him ; 
But  o'  none  o'  his  pets  were  he  quite  that  fond 
That  he  were  of  a  cat  as  he'd  saved  from  a  pond 
As  were  trying  to  swim  with  a  stone  round  her  neck. 

Well,  yer  honor,  this  cat  an'  I  didn't  agree. 

She  used  to  trot  up  an'  down  the  deck, 

An'  'u'd  get  in  the  way  o'  the  crew,  ye  see. 

An'  at  last  one  day  I  were  shiftin'  some  kegs, 

An'  she  comes  an'  pushes  'tween  my  legs, 

An'  trips  me  up,  an'  I  tumbles  flat; 

An'  I  ups  in  a  wax  an'  says  "  Bother  that  cat " 

(Savin'  yer  honor's  presence)  an'  then 

I  says,  "  Ye  don't  never  do  that  again," 

An'  I  takes  an'  pitches  her  into  the  sea. 

An'  my  shipmates  stan's  a-splittin'  at  me, 


AND  RECITATIONS  No.  21.  71 

An'  roars  out :  "  Cat  overboard !  Jim  Lord, 
Someun's  been  chuckin'  jer  cat  overboard." 

Jim   run'd  to  the  taffrel  an'  seed  it  were  true, 
For  there  were  the  crittur  a-swimmin'  in  view ; 
Then  lie  run'd  to  the  cap'n,  an'  "Cap'n,"  says  he, 
"  Some  brute's  been  an'  throwed  the  cat  in  the  sea; 
Ye  can  spy  her  a-swimmin',  cap'n,  from  here — 
Will  ye  stop  the  ship,  sir,  an'  lower  a  boat?" 
lt  Jim  Lord,"  says  the  cap'n,  "I've  been  afloat 
From  boy  to  cap'n,  nigh  forty  year, 
An'  of  all  the  fools  as  ever  I  see 
In  that  long  spell,  the  biggest  ye  be; 
To  think  any  cap'n  'u'd  be  such  a  flat 
As  stop  a  liner  to  pick  up  a  cat !" 

"What  d'ye  think  Jim  does?     "  Cap'n,"  says  he, 
"  Then  you're  bound  to  stop  one  to  pick  up  me;" 
An'  over  the  taffrel  goes  Jim  Lord, 
An'  the  cry  this  time  were  "  Man  overboard  !" 
Well,  the  cap'n  goed  perfectly  white  with  rage, 
But,  o'  course,  lie  were  bound  to  lower  a  boat, 
An'  in  less  than  five  minutes  we  had  her  afloat, 
Though,  I  felt  every  minute  were  like  an  age, 
An'  (I  hopes  I'm  not  tirin'  yer  honor?) — well,  Jim 
Picks  up  the  cat,  an'  we  picks  up  him. 

'Twould  have  done  yer  heart  good,  sir,  to  have  heered 

The  way  as  the  crew  an'  the  passengers  cheered, 

But  the  cap'n  were  savage  with  Jim,  an'  swore 

He'd  have  him  in  irons  a  week  or  more ! 

So  we  writes  a  round-robin,  an'  gets  the  first  mate 

To  ax  Jim  off  in  the  name  o'  the  crew ; 

An'  the  passengers  writes  a  round-robin,  too, 

An'  sen's  it  in  by  Sir  Richard  Thwayte. 

An'  the  mate  an'  Sir  Richard  they  argueys  the  case, 

An'  at  last  the  cap'n  he  strokes  his  face 

An'  says :    "  If  I  lets  Jim  off,  it's  jest 

As  a  pussonal  favor  to  you  an'  the  rest ; 


72  WERNER'S  READINGS 

But  I  gives  ye  my  Alfred  David,"  says  he, 
"  As  lie  don't  never  sail  no  more  with  me; 
So,  gentlemen,  now,  ye've  got  my  reply." 

"Well,  Sir  Richard  he  goes  to  Jim  by  an'  by, 

An'  says:    "  Muster  Lord,  the  cap'n  has  swore 

As  ye  shan't  never  sail  with  him  no  more. 

I  respects  yer  kindness,  likewise  yer  pluck, 

An'  I  don't  likeseein'  'em  bring  ye  ill-luck; 

So,  if  ye  be  tired  o'  livin'  at  sea, 

An'  'u'd  care  to  pass  the  rest  o'  yer  days 

Where  the  animals  is,  an'  l'arn  'em  yer  ways, 

Why,  my  old  park-keeper's  jest  dead,"  says  he, 

"An'  the  place  is  yourn  if  ye'll  say  the  word." 

An'  that,  yer  honor,  were  how  Jim  Lord 

Came  to  be  keeper  of  Eddingley  Park. 

Well,  yer  honor,  that  evenin',  afore  it  were  dark, 

I  goes  to  Jim,  an'  I  says  to  him  :    "  Jim, 

It  were  all  my  fault  as  ye  had  that  swim, 

An'  now  I  axes  yer  parding,"  says  I, 

4 'An'  I  hopes  to  get  it." 

Says  he:  "  Tom  Bligh, 

It's  an  easy  thing  for  ye  to  get  that ! 

What  ye  wants  is  the  parding  o'  this  here  cat." 

He  picks  her  up,  an'  he  says  to  her  :  ' '  Kitty, 

This  is  the  man  tried  to  drown  ye,  my  pretty ; 

He  don't  know  yer  lingo,  Kitty,"  says  lie, 

"  So  ye  says  to  him  what  ye  says  through  me. 

Ye  tells  him  as  life's  as  sweet  a  thing, 

An'  dyin'  as  hard,  to  a  cat  as  a  king ; 

Te  tell  him  it  might  have  been  God's  plan 

To  have  made  him  the  cat  an'  have  made  ye  the  man, 

An'  ye  axes  him  how  he'd  have  felt  if  he'd 

Bin  took  by  ye  an'  chucked  in  the  sea. 

Ye  axes  him,  Kitty,  to  think  o'  that 

ISText  time  as  he'd  harm  a  pore  little  cat ; 

An'  then  ye  gives  him  yer  parding,"  says  he, 

An'  ye  gives  him  yer  paw."     "  Well,  Kitty,"  says  I, 


AND  RECITATIONS  No.  21.  73 

"  As  I  takes  it,  the  two  on  yes  taught  Tom  I  Ugh 

A  lesson  I  hopes  he'll  never  forget." 

An'  though  it's  ten  year  as  I  left  the  sea, 

I  ain't  forgotten  that  lesson  yet ; 

An'  I  took  good  care  as  I  never  should, 

For  I  goes  to  one  o'  my  mates,  Bill  Wood, 

As  did  the  ship's  paintin',  an'  says  to  him  :    "  Bill, 

Will  ye  paint  me  a  pictur  ?"     Says  he,  "  That  I  will." 

"  Then,"  says  I,  "if  so  be  as  ye'll  humor  my  whim, 

Jest  paint  that  cat  there  a-paddlin'  at  sea, 

An'  Jim  Lord  a-swimmin'  to  save  her,  an'  we 

A-pullin'  our  arms  off  to  pick  up  Jim, 

An'  the  Annabel  Zee  a'Standin'  to.'* 


PARDNERSHIP.' 


ELEANOR  KIRK. 

WALL,  I'm  tired,  and  I'm  gettin'  tireder  every  day  of 
my  life.  I  thought  I'd  just  stop  into  the  town  hall 
a  few  minutes  and  hear  that  woman  talk.  I  heard  she  was 
smart,  but  I  vum!  it's  the  same  old  story— woman's  rights 
and  man's  cussedness.  They've  got  in  the  habit  of  talkin' 
this  stuff,  but  'tain't  no  such  thing.  Don't  you  think  I  know? 
Now  just  look  at  me.  Ten  year  ago  I  thought  I  was  the 
head  of  my  house.  One  night,  about  that  time,  I  altered  my 
mind,  and  I  ain't  had  no  occasion  since  to  alter  it  back  again. 
I'll  never  ferget  that  time.  It  was  blamed  curious,  I  toll  yc.  If 
I'd  been  struck  by  lightnin'  I  couldn't  'a'  been  more  para- 
lyzed 'way  inside  where  I  live.  Before  this  cyclone  it  had 
allers  been  su'thin  like  this  :  "  Amos,  if  you  can  spare  one 
of  the  bosses  to-day,  I'd  like  to  use  him;"  or,  "  I'd  like  to 
go  to  this  meetin',  Amos;"  or,  "Amos,  what  do  you  think 
about  this?" 

Wall,  this  night  I'm  tellin'  you  about,  I'd  came  in  pretty 


74  WERNER'S  READINGS 

tired  from  hayin',  and  I  sec  that  Maria  had  on  her  best  gown. 
After  I'd  washed  up,  I  sez  to  her  : 

"  Maria,"  sez  I,  "  you  look  as  if  you  was  goin1  out.  You 
ain't  said  nothin'  to  me  about  it." 

"Why  should  I?"  sez  she,  kinder  springy  and  easy-like. 

I  thought  'twould  come  out  all  right,  so  sez  I :  "  "Where 
'bouts  are  you  goin'  ?" 

Sez  she  :      "  I'm  going  to  hear  Susan  B.  Anthony  lecture. " 

"How  you  goin' ?" 

"  With  my  horse  and  carriage,"  sez  she. 

"  Been  speculatin'?"  sez  I,  kinder  easy. 

You  see  I  didn't  know  but  what  the  woman  had  lost  her 
mind. 

"  Ain't  seen  any  new  rigs  layin'  around  loose,"  sez  I. 

"  "What's  yourn  is  mine,  Amos,"  sez  she.  "I  want  Jim 
and  the  buggy,"  sez  she,  "  and  if  you'd  like  to  go  with  me, 
I'd  like  to  have  you.  If  you  don't  want  to  go,"  sez  she, 
"  all  right.  I  can  hitch  up  myself,  and  I  can  drive  myself. 
I  ain't  beholden  to  no  man  fer  anything  on  the  face  of  the 
airth,"  sez  she. 

"  Maria,  you're  a  lunatic,"  sez  I.  "  S'pose  I  don't  choose 
to  let  you  have  Jim  and  the  buggy?"  sez  I. 

"  Then  I'll  hire  of  a  neighbor,"  sez  she. 

"And  who'll  pay  fer  it?"  sez  I;  and  I  guess  my  voice 
sounded  like  thunder,  fer  it  rung  in  my  ears  like  Niagary 
Falls. 

ie  You  and  me,"  sez  she,  with  the  same  Queen  of  Sheby 
airs;  "  you'll  pay  half  and  I'll  pay  half. " 

"  But  where' 11  you  get  your  half?"  sez  I. 

"  Out  of  the  pardnership,"  sez  she,  "  and  everything  on 
this  place  is  just  as  much  mine  as  'tis  yourn. " 

"  "When  did  you  find  that  out?"  sez  I. 

"  I've  knowed  it  fer  a  long  time,"  sez  she,  "  but  it  ne^er 
got  clinched  inside  of  me  till  a  few  days  ago. ' ' 

Wall,  I've  heard  funny  things,  and  eenamost  split  my 
sides,  but  I  never  listened  to  anything  quite  so  funny  as  that 
afore.  I  begun  to  larf,  and  I  larfed  till  I  cried.  I  hee-heed 
and  haw-hawed,  and  Maria  sot  down  and  got  at  it,  too.      She 


AND  RECITATIONS  No.  SI.  75 

looked  real  kind  of  sensible  and  pretty,  as  she  jined  in  the 
merriment,  and  something  then  and  there  got  clinched  inside 
of  me. 

What  did  I  do?  Why,  jest  exactly  what  every  sensible  man 
is  doin'  at  the  present  time.  I  acknowledged  the  pardner- 
ship.  I  hitched  up,  put  on  a  clean  collar  and  my  tother  coat 
and  vest,  and  we  went  to  the  meetin'.  There  warnt  much 
said  goin'  or  comin',  but  on  the  way  home,  when  Maria  be- 
gun to  talk  about  single  tax,  I  larfed  so  that  the  horse  shied 
clean  into  Deacon  Baker's  front  yard. 

"Say,  Amos,"  sez  she,  after  Jim  had  got  through  pran- 
cin',  "  don't  do  that  again.  I'd  rather  know  less  about  single 
tax  than  be  a  single  woman. " 

Don't  you  suppose  that  settled  it?  You  bet!  My  arm 
went  round  Maria,  and  she  sez,  sez  she : 

"  It's  nice  to  be  real  pardners,  ain't  it,  Amos?" 

K"ow  what  I  want  to  say  to  you  is  that  there  ain't  a  sensible 
man  on  airth,  but  what  feels  this  way,  and  that's  why  I  wish 
they'd  get  on  to  something  else  besides  man's  cruelty  and 
woman's  sufferin's. 


BRUDDER  JONES'S  HETERODOXY. 


MY  sistern  an'  bredrin  dear, 
"We's  'sembled  on  dis  'casion 
Wid  Brudder  Jones  ter  wrastle, 

An'  ter  try  by  prahful  suasion 
Ter  bring  him  back  into  de  fole, 
Fum  which  he's  strayed  right  fur,  I'se  tole. 

He  p'intedly  denies  some  facks 

What  all  good  Christians  bleeves  in. 

He  'clar's  de  Lord  in  six  short  days 
Didn't  make  de  world  we  lives  in; 

Lak,  when  de  Scripturs  tells  us  so 

'Tain't  gospel  trufe  we's  bleeged  to  know. 


76  WERNER'S  READINGS 

He  'lows  dat  'way  down  onderneaf 

De  dirt  an'  rocks  an'  litter 
Dar's  curious  bones  been  f  oun'  what  proves 

Some  quare,  outlandish  critter 
"Wus  buried  ober  a  thousan'  years 
'Eo'  Adam  habited  dese  speres. 

An'  den  he  'gists  dat  nachur's  laws 

All  things  mils'  sholy  f  oiler. 
Ebin  ef  de  sun  hadn't  bin  too  fur 

Ter  hear  ole  Joshua  holler, 
Hit  wouldn't  er  stopped  at  his  comman' 
Kase  dat  warn't  in  de  schedule  plan. 

De  Israelites  could  swim,  he  'clar's, 
An',  darfore,  crossed  de  water 

All  safe  an'  soun',  while  Pharaoh's  hos' 
"When  dey  come  f  ollerin'  atter 

Went  to  de  bottom  monstrous  quick 

Kase  none  er  dem  couldn't  swim  a  lick. 

He  says  he  may  be  m ought  er  bleeved 

Erbout  dem  loaves  an'  fishes 
Ef  he'd  er  bin  dar  on  de  sj)ot 

Ter  sop  de  dinner  dishes ; 
But  he  couldn't  go  dat  fishy  tale 
'Bout  Jonah  an'  de  hungry  whale. 

He  telb  us  edicated  fo'ks 

All  knows  dem  Bible  stories 
Don't  mean  adzackly  what  dey  says ; 

He  calls  dem  allumgories, 
An'  'lows  we  'terpets  um  all  wrong 
Kase  ignerance  makes  our  faith  too  strong. 

Dis  brudder  ter  Gomorrah 

An'  ter  Sodom's  been  er-strayin* 

Instid  er  tarryin'  in  de  f ole 
Er-watchin'  an'  er-prayin'. 


AND  RECITATIONS  No.  $1.  77 

An'  shepherds  ub  dem  city  flocks 
Dareselves  ain't  always  orterdox. 

An'  so  I  ax  you,  Christian  frien's, 

Dis  hymn  ter  please  now  jine  in, 
"Come,  humble  sinner,  in  whose  breas' " 

(Des  sing  it  widout  limn'), 
An'  den  we'll  argefy  an'  pray 
An'  cast  dat  debbil  out,  I  say. 


FIRETOWN'S  NEW  SGHOOLHOUSE. 


PAULINE  PHELPS. 


'As  told  by  the  deacons  wife. 


TT  was  Mr.  Stokes  begun  it,  that  spring  Jeremiah  was 
committee.  He  come  over  to  our  house  one  night  an' 
said  'twould  be  criminal  carelessness  to  let  them  children  go 
to  school  in  that  rickety  buildin'  through  another  winter ; 
there'd  ought  to  be  a  new  one  put  up  right  away.  Jeremiah 
was  clear  took  back  at  first,  an'  said  there  wa'n't  time  to  get 
a  vote  on  it  an'  the  buildin'  ready  before  the  fall  term  com- 
menced; but  Stokes  argued  there  was,  if  only  the  folks  could 
be  brought  to  agree  at  the  first  meetin'.  He's  pretty  convincin' 
in  his  conversation,  an'  the  upshot  of  it  was  Jeremiah  come 
round  to  his  way  of  thinkin'. 

But  land,  what  a  stir  callin'  that  meetin'  did  make  in  the 
deestrict — an'  how  the  folks  did  talk !  Free  silver  wa'n't 
nothin'  to  it,  nor  whether  or  not  the  minister's  wife  had  be'n 
complainin'  to  the  other  church  about  the  way  we  treated  her ; 
an'  at  Mis'  Simon's  quiltin'-party  tke  new  schoolhouse  was 
'most  the  only  thing  they  said  a  word  about. 

I  b'lieve  in  women  bein'  interested  in  outside  things  myself, 
but  when  I  went  over  to  Mis'  Brown's  to  git  my  receipt  for 
sponge-cake  she'd  borryed,  an'  she  said  she  was  so  busy  pre- 
parin'  a  paper  'bout  the  schoolhouse  for  the  Ladies'  Literary 


78  WERNER'S  READINGS 

Club  she  couldn't  spend  time  to  hunt  it  up,  an'  she'd  have  to 
ask  me  if  I  minded  waitin'  till  next  week,  I  did  feel  that  was 
carry  in'  it  a  leetle  too  far.  Mebbe  I  was  harsh  in  my  jeedg- 
ment,  an'  'twas  thought  best  to  bring  the  trouble  nearer  home — ■ 
for  it  wa'n't  long  after  that  I  begun  to  notice  my  Jeremiah  was 
gittin'  excited,  too !  He  hadn't  be'n  so  very  anxious  to  build 
in  the  first  place,  but  he's  sort  o'  mulish  in  his  temper,  an'  the 
more  folks  talked  ag'inst  it  the  more  set  he  was  for  it.  An' 
one  night  he  come  home  an'  says  to  me : 

"Jerushy,"  says  he,  "if  I  could  give  seventy-five  dollars  an' 
hev  thet  schoolhouse  built,  I'd  do  it  in  a  minute." 

Ordinarily  Jeremiah  is  a  leetle  inclined  to  be  near,  air  I  felt 
when  he  said  that,  he  must  be  pretty  well  stirred  up. 

I  don't  know  but  'twould  seem  strange  to  some  folks,  an' 
sech  a  thing  hain't  happened  in  Firetown  since  the  remem- 
brance of  anyone,  but  all  we  women  went  to  that  school- 
meetin'.  I  proposed  it.  I  didn't  think  'twas  proper  for  me  to 
be  the  only  one,  an'  I  felt  as  if  I'd  ought  to  go  to  look  after  my 
husban'.  Jeremiah  is  a  well-meanin'  man,  an'  commonly  very 
honest;  but  when  I  thought  of  the  excitement  he  was  laborin' 
under,  I  wanted  to  see  with  my  own  eyes  that  he  didn't  put  two 
votes  into  the  hat,  or  use  undue  persuasion,  or  anything  of 
that  sort.  So  I  proposed  it  to  the  other  women,  and  we  all 
went. 

Old  Mr.  Lawson  made  the  first  speech.  He  ain't  what  you'd 
call  fluent,  but  he'd  got  what  he  had  to  say  all  written  down, 
an'  save  once  when  he  twisted  the  leaves  an'  started  onto 
the  wrong  page,  he  managed  to  keep  along  pretty  well.  All 
about  taxes  it  was;  how  for  years  they'd  be'n  threatenin'  to 
ruin  the  landowners,  until  the  poorhouse  was  starin'  farmers 
in  the  face,  an'  how  much  higher  a  new  schoolhouse  would 
make  'em. 

"An'  we  don't  need  a  new  one,"  he  finished  with,  "not  any 
more'n  we  need  a  dancin'-hall,  nor  a  free  library,  nor  two 
heads !  No,  nor  half  so  much !  A  new  head  might  be  an 
advantage  to  some  folks,"  an'  here  he  looked  mighty  sharp  at 
Jeremiah,  "they  might  stand  a  chance  of  gittin'  a  little  com- 
mon sense  along  with  it." 


AND  RECITATIONS  No.  21.  79 


There  was  consider' ble  more  of  the  same  kind  of  talk,  but 
I  didn't  pay  much  attention,  till  Stokes  got  up  to  answer. 
Mebbe  some  of  you  have  heard  Will  Stokes  speak,  an'  know 
how  it  is.  He  didn't  read  what  he  had  to  say,  an'  blunder 
through  the  readin'.  I  guess  not!  You'd  most  thought  his 
mouth  was  coated  inside  with  wax,  the  words  slipped  out  so 
easy.  An'  the  feelin'  he  put  into  them!  Why,  I'd  be'n 
partial  to  havin'  a  new  schoolhouse  from  the  beginnin',  but, 
before  be  got  through  talkin',  it  seemed  tome  that  every  per- 
son that  voted  ag'inst  it  ought  to  be  flayed  an' No,  I 

don't  mean  that,  but  it  did  seem  as  if  they  ought  to  be  put  in 
a  lunatic  asylum !  It  stirred  me  up  so  much  I  forgot  I  was 
in  meetin',  where  women  should  be  seen  an'  not  heard,  an' 
the  minute  he  stopped  I  rushed  over  to  him. 

"It's  ev'ry  word  gospel  truth,"  says  I,  "an'  your  wife 
ain't  a  bit  prouder  of  you  to-day  than  I  am." 

"  Jerushy  ! ' '  says  Jeremiah. 

But  the  rest  of  the  men  was  talkin'  about  their  votes  an' 
didn't  notice,  an'  'twas  only  school-meetin\  so  I  don't  know 
as  'twill  be  counted  a  sin. 

'Twa'n't  long  after  that  when  the  votin'  commenced.  I 
didn't  breathe  twice  while  the  hat  was  goin'  round,  an'  I  do 
sometimes  think  that  if  I'd  seen  Jeremiah  try  to  put  in  two 
slips  I'd  looked  the  other  way  an'  let  him  done  it.  But  he 
didn't  offer  to — ordinarily  my  husban'  ain't  the  excitable  one 
in  our  fam'ly — an'  the  votes  turned  out  a  tie. 

"  There'll  have  to  be  a  new  ballot  taken,"  says  the  chair- 
man; an'  Stokes  got  up  to  begin  another  speech. 

It  didn't  seem  as  if  I  could  live  over  all  that  anxiety 
ag'in. 

"  Jeremiah,"  says  I,  "I'm  goin'  home,"  an'  before  he 
could  answer  "yes"  or  "no,"  I  was  out-of-doors.  We  don't 
live  far  from  the  schoolhouse,  an'  ev'ry  step  of  the  way  over 
I  was  thinkin'  'bout  that  tie.  I  knew  there  wouldn't  none  of 
the  other  side  give  in  to  the  next  ballot,  'twas  too  late  for  a 
new  meetin',  an'  after  that  speech  of  S cokes  it  did  seem  a  sin 
them  children  should  have  to  stay  in  that  buildin'  through 
the  winter.     The  more  I  thought  on't  the  worse   I   felt !     I 


80  WERNERS  READINGS 

b'lieve  I  cried  a  little,  an'  before  I  could  git  anyways  recon- 
ciled I'd  come  to  the  house — an'  there  "was  Hermit  Jim  sittin' 
on  the  piazza,  waitin'.  My  face  got  smoothed  out  then, 
pretty  quick.  There  shouldn't  no  one  have  a  chance  to  say 
I  got  excited  at  school-meetin',  if  'twas  the  truth.  I  didn't 
care  much  about  Jim.  He  was  love-cracked  anyway,  folks 
said,  an'  lived  up  the  mountain  in  a  sort  of  cave — but  I'd  a 
leetle  rather  even  he  shouldn't  suspect. 

"Be'n  waitin' long?"  says  I,  as  cheery  as  could  be,  an' 
startin'  to  git  the  butter  he  wanted.  "  We  ain't  very  often 
away  from  home  ev'nin's,  but  I've  be'n  down  this  time  to  the 
meetin'  to  see  how  the  vote  'bout  the  new  schoolhouse  turned 
out." 

"  Talkin'  'bout  a  new  one,  be  they?"  says  he. 

"  Well,  I  should  say  so?  Good  land,  Jim  Fisk,  hain't 
you  heerd  of  that?  They've  be'n  talkin'  'bout  it  for  weeks, 
an'  to-night  I  went  over  an'  waited  to  hear  how  the  vote 
turned  out.     It's  a  tie. " 

He  laughed  hearty,  for  him. 

"A  tie,  hey?  They  ought  to  hev  hed  me  thar,  to  decide 
it." 

"Good  land  of  Goshen!  Jim  Fisk,  do  you  belong  to  our 
district?  " 

"  I  s'pose  I  do.  I've  be'n  here  long  enough,  an'  I  dunno 
nothin'  ag'inst  livin'  in  a  cave." 

I  jumped  up  an'  grabbed  his  arm,  not  carin'  whether  I 
acted  excited  or  not  then. 

"  Do  you  start  an'  run — run"  says  I,  "to  that  school- 
house,  an'  tell  'em  you've  come  to  vote,  an'  vote  to  have  a 
new  one !  It'll  decide  it !  Mercy  on  us,  man,  don't  stand 
there  starin'  !      Can't  you  start?  " 

"  You're  gittin'  stirred  up,  old  lady,"  says  he.  "I  ain't 
anxious  to  go.      'Tain't  no  consarn  of  mine." 

"  Don't  be  a  pesky  fool,"  cries  I,  so  flustrated  I  couldn't 
choose  my  words.  "  The  lives  of  all  the  children  in  the  dees- 
trict  is  dependin'  on  that  new  schoolhouse ! ' ' 

"I  dunno  as  I  keer  about  their  lives,"  grinned  he. 

I  don't  s'pose  I'd  done  it — I  reely  don't  s'pose  I'd  done  it 


AND  RECITATIONS  No.  21.  81 

if  I'd  had  a  chance  to  think.  But  I  knew  if  I  took  much 
time  the  votin'  would  be  done  with,  and  the  chance  of  a  new 
schoolhouse  over  for  that  year.  It  made  me  feel  wild,  so's 
to  speak,  an'  in  my  flurry  I  never  sensed  I  was  a  dekin's 
wife. 

"  Jim  Fisk,"  says  I,  "if  you'll  go  this  minute,  an'  not 
say  you  was  sent,  Til  give  you  them  two  pounds  of  hutter  !  " 

He  spoke  up  firm  an'  prompt:  "Good  for  you,  Mis'  Jeru- 
shy!     I'll  do  it." 

The  second  he  was  gone  I  dropped  into  a  chair,  as  limp  as 
if  I'd  jest  be'n  wrung  out  of  water. 

"The  Lord  have  mercy  on  me!"  says  I.  "What  would 
Jeremiah  say?" 

I've  considered  a  good  deal  about  it  since.  It  was  a  sin — 
°  terrible  sin — an'  me  bein'  a  dekin's  wife  makes  it  worse. 
But  somehow  when  Jeremiah  come  home,  tickled  to  death, 
an'  wonderin'  what  put  the  notion  of  votin'  into  Jim  Fisk's 
head  when  there  hadn't  neither  side  thought  of  him,  I  couldn't 
feel  for  certain  I'd  .repented. 


IT  WAR  CRACKIT  AFORE." 


GATH  BRITTLE. 

"  O  Elsie,  ye  will  drive  me  mad 

Wi'  your  wearisome,  worrisome  ways; 

Your  lack  o'  wit,  an'  your  want  o'  care 
Wi'  sorrow  will  cloud  my  days!" 

Thus  sternly  spoke  a  Scottish  dame. 
To  her  handmaid,  brawny  and  brown, 

"Who,  weeping,  stood  by  the  garden  gate 
With  her  eyes  cast  humbly  down. 

At  her  feet  in  scattered  heaps  there  lay 

The  shreds  of  a  china  bowJ ; 
And  she  wept  as  though  her  falling  tears 

Might  make  the  vessel  whole. 


82  WERNER'S  READINGS 

"  Please,  ma'am,"  slie  said,  "  'twas  na  my  faut, 

An'  I  willna  do  it  more ; 
But  the  bowl  brak  not  along  o'  me, 

For  it  war  crackit  afore." 

Just  then  a  thump,  thump,  thump  was  heard, 

And  a  sharp  yell  vexed  the  air. 
"  Bin,  Elsie!"  cried  the  startled  dame; 

"  Heal's  toombled  doon  the  stair!" 

The  handmaid  ran,  the  mother  ran ; 

The  mother  won  the  race, 
And  in  a  trice  poor  screaming  Hal 

Was  safe  in  her  embrace. 

"  Hast  broke  thy  head,  my  bairn?" 

In  pitying  tones,  she  said. 
"  'No,  rnither,  no,"  he  sobbing  cried, 

"  I  hanna  brak  my  head. 

"  An,  prithee,  mither,  chide  me  not, 

I'll  never  do  it  more; 
It  wasna  brak  along  o'  me, 

For  it  war  crackit  afore." 


THE  TIRED  OLD  WOMAN. 


THERE  was  an  old  woman  who  always  was  tired. 
She  lived  in  a  house  where  no  help  was  hired. 
Her  last  words  on  earth  were   ' '  Dear  friends,  I  am  going 
Where  sweeping  ain't  done,  nor  churning,  nor  sewing; 
And  everything  there  will  be  just  to  my  wishes, 
For  where  they  don't  eat,  there's  no  washing  of  dishes; 
And  though  there  the  anthems  are  constantly  ringing, 
I,  having  no  voice,  will  get  rid  of  the  singing. 
Don't  mourn  for  me  now,  don't  mourn  for  me  never, 
For  I'm  going  to  do  nothing  for  ever  and  ever." 


AND  RECITATIONS  No.  21.  83 


THE  SONS  OF  THE  WIDOW. 


KUDYARD    KIPLING. 

'   A    YE  you  5eard  o'  the  Widow  at  Windsor 
/l      With  a  hair j  gold  crown  on  'er  'ead? 
She  'as  ships  on  the  foam — she  'as  millions  at  'ome, 
An'  she  pays  us  poor  beggars  in  red. 
(Ow,  poor  beggars  in  red!) 
There's  'er  nick  on  the  cavalry  'orses, 
There's  'er  mark  on  the  medical  stores — 
An'  'er  troopers  you'll  find  with  a  fair  wind  be'ind 
That  takes  us  to  various  wars. 
(Poor  beggars! — barbarous  wars!) 
Then  'ere's  to  the  Widow  at  Windsor, 
An'  'ere's  to  the  stores  an'  the  guns, 
The  men  an'  the  'orses  what  makes  up  the  forces 
O'  Misses  Victorier's  sons. 
(Poor  beggars! — Victorier's  sons!) 

Walk  wide  o'  the  Widow  at  Windsor, 

For  'alf  o'  creation  she  owns; 

We  'ave  bought  'er  the  same  with  the  sword  an'  the  flame. 

An'  we've  salted  it  down  with  our  bones. 

(Poor  beggars ! — it's  blue  with  our  bones!) 

Hands  off  o'  the  sons  of  the  Widow, 

Hands  off  o'  the  goods  in  'er  shop, 

For  the  kings  must  come  down  an'  the  emperors  frown 

When  the  Widow  at  Windsor  says  "  Stop !  " 

(Poor  beggars ! — we're  sent  to  say  "  Stop! '') 

Then  'ere's  to  the  Lodge  o'  the  Widow, 

From  the  Pole  to  the  Tropics  it  runs — 

To  the  Lodge  that  we  tile  with  the  rank  an'  the  file, 

An'  open  in  forms  with  the  guns.  - 

(Poor  beggars! — it's  always  them  guns!) 

We  'ave  'eard  o'  the  Widow  at  Windsor 

It's  safest  to  let  'er  alone  \  '■ 


84  WERNER'S  READINGS 

For  'er  sentries  we  stand  by  the  sea  an'  the  land 

Wherever  the  bugles  are  blown. 

(Poor  beggars! — an'  don't  we  get  blown!) 

Take  'old  o'  the  wings  o'  the  mornin', 

An'  flop  round  the  earth  till  you're  dead; 

But  you  won't  get  away  from  the  tune  that  they  play 

To  the  bloomin'  old  rag  over'ead. 

(Poor  beggars! — it's  'ot  over'ead!) 

Then  'ere's  to  the  sons  o'  the  Widow, 

Wherever,  'owever,  they  roam. 

'Ere's  all  they  desire,  an'  if  they  require 

A  speedy  return  to  their  'ome. 

(Poor  beggars! — they'll  never  see  'ome!) 


DON'T. 


NIXON   WATERMANN. 

I   MIGHT  have  just  the  mostest  fun 
If  'twasan't  for  a  word, 
I  think  the  very  worstest  one 

'At  ever  /  have  heard, 
I  wish  'at  it  'u'd  go  away, 
But  I'm  afraid  it  won't; 
I  s'pose  'at  it'll  always  stay — 
That  awful  word  of  "don't." 

It's  "  Don't  you  make  a  bit  of  noise;" 

And  "  Don't  go  out-of-doors;  " 
And  "Don't  you  spread  your  stock  of  toys 

About  the  parlor  floor ; ' ' 
And  "  Don't  you  dare  play  in  the  dust;  '* 

And  "Don't  you  tease  the  cat;" 
And  "  Don't  you  get  your  clothing  mussed;" 

And  "  don't "  do  this  and  that. 

It  seems  to  me  I've  never  found 
A  thing  I'd  like  to  do 


AND  RECITATIONS  No.  21.  85 

But  that  there's  someone  else  around 

'At's  got  a  "don't  "  or  two. 
And  Sunday — 'at's  the  day  'at  "don't" 

Is  worst  of  all  the  seven. 
Oh,  goodness !  but  I  hope  there  won't 

Be  any  "  don'ts  "  in  heaven! 


TELLING  TALES. 


ANA  BARNARD. 

SISTER  says  I  mustn't  tell  yer; 
Said  I'd  better  hold  my  tongue. 
But  it's  kinder  ticklish  bisncss 
For  a  feller  that's  so  young. 
But  I  up  an-  seen  her  do  it, — 

Kissed  yer  pictur' ;  then  she  cried 
"When  she  saw  me,  said  I'd  ruo  it 
If  I  spoke  o'  what  I'd  spied. 

But  I  kinder  like  yer,  mister, 

An'  I  think  if  I  wcz  growd 
An'  I  io«  cd  a  feller's  sister 

An'  I  wished  bad  that  I  knowed 
If  she  loved  me,  just  a  little, 

I'd  be  kinder  glad  to  hear 
That  she  kissed  an'  hugged  my  pictur* 

When  she  thought  no  one  was  near. 

Don't  yer  let  on  that  I  told  yer. 

Sister'd  be  so  hoppin'  mad. 
Candy?     Well,  I  like  it,  rather. 

Say — yer  not  afraid  o'  dad? 
Daddy  likes  yer.     He's  a  spanker! 
Says  he  likes  yer  best  uv  all — 
What,  a  nickel,  sir?     Oh9  thank  yei. 

Nqx  T'Ji'  rMp  out  in  the  hall 


86  WERNER'S  READINGS 

Sister's  comin' — looks  as  pretty — 

Yer  will  want  to  kiss  her  sure. 
Aren't  yer  glad,  sir,  that  I  told  yer? 

Wisht  I  could  see  through  the  door, 
But  I'm  sure  she  will  not  kiss  yer, — ■ 

Kissed  yer  pictur',  too,  that's  queer! 
Girls  are  just  the  greatest  creatures — 

"Well,  good-bye,  sir,  sister's  here. 


A  JOLLY  BRICK. 


PAULINE     PHELPS. 


[By  permission  of  Frank  Leslie's  Weekly.  ] 

BUSINESS  ?  Well,  it  hain't  be'n  what  ye'd  call  rushin', 
so's  to  speak.  We'd  got  our  plans  all  laid  fur  retirin' 
'n'  goin'  on  a  trip  to  TTrop ;  but  I  guess,  'cordin'  to  the  pres- 
ent outlook,  we  may  hang  round  till  next  month,  llit's 
mostly  luck,  this  kind  o'  work.  We  has  our  ups  'n'  downs, 
same  as  Yanderbilt  an'  the  rest  o'  the  tribe,  'n'  jes'  now  it's 
down. 

Huh?  Fellers  stay  round  in  this  kind  o'  bus'ness  very 
long  ?  Sometimes  they  do  'n'  sometimes  they  don't.  I  hed 
one  pard  in  the  city  fur  the  matter  o'  three  years,  but — he's 
gone  now.  'Tain't  'xactly  up  to  bein'  alderman,  ye  see. 
The  wind  'n'  sleet  is  bad  fur  our  sealskin  cloaks  'n'  white  kid 
gloves,  'n'  so  we  has  to  leave  'em  off,  an'  the  same  with  our 
buttonhole  bouquets.     But — 

What  become  o'  me  chum  ?  Dick  Corwin  ?  Well,  now, 
look  a  here,  ain't  ye  gittin'  a  little  inquisitive?  Who  be  ye, 
anyhow?  a  newspaper  reporter?  Ye  needn't  be  tryin'  that 
game  here.  Billy  Smith  was  writ  up  in  the  paper  once, — "A 
Specimen  of  the  New  York  Bootblack;"  an'  never  a  3ent  did 
he  git  to  pay  fur  the  laugh  we  had  on  him.  Oh,  ye  ain't  a 
reporter!  Well,  then,  look  a  here,  boss,  so  long  as  it's  a 
rainy  day,  'n'  ye  give  me  yer  worcl,  fair  'n'   square,   ye  can 


AND  RECITATIONS  No.  21.  87 

sit  down  here  'n'  I'll  tell  ye  all  about  him.  Ready,  now?  I 
ain't  jest  used  to  tellin'  stories, — a  leetle  out  o'  practice  o' 
writin'  editorials,  so's  to  speak, — but  I'll  jest  rattle  it  off  as  I 
think  on't,  an'  ye  can  fill  up  the  chinks. 

Grood-lookin'  ?  ISTaw.  If  ye  t'inks  yer  goin'  to  hear  about 
one  o'  yer  swell  kind,  why,  then  ye  got  to  the  wrong  place. 
Red  hair  'n'  turn-up  nose  'n'  squint  eyes!  But  I  tell  ye 
what  it  is,  boss,  if  ye  like  a  feller  that  can  jest  knock  another 
into  de  middle  o'  next  week  whenever  he  says  a  word  ag'in 
him,  why,  then  ye'd  ought  to  seen  Dick.  Wrastle?  Now 
yer  shoutin' !  Why,  ther'  wa'n't  any  o'  the  boys  could 
come  anywhere  near  him;  an'  none  of  'em  so  much  as  dared 
open  their  mouth  to  thet  little  cove  of  a  Jamie  he  was  lookin' 
out  fur.  Say,  that  was  one  o'  Dick's  queer  streaks.  If  he'd 
be'n  a  wras'ler,  or  his  brother,  or  sumthin',  we'd  stood  it 
better.  But  Jamie — he  was  one  o'  them  softies,  never  know 
nothin'  till  it's  knocked  into  'em,  'n'  no  relation  at  all. 

But  his  lookin'  out  fur  Jamie  was  the  only  queer  streak 
Dick  had,  'n'  he  was  my  pard  off  'n'  on  fur  three  year. 
Fun?  Well,  ye  bet  yer  life !  Why,  the  cops  was  after  us 
more'n  half  the  time  fur  disturbances,  'n'  such.  But  the 
minute  we  see  'em  comin'  we'd  start  fur  the  ferry,  'n'  it 
didn't  take  us  very  long  to  lose  sight  of  'em.  'N'  we  used 
to  make  things  lively  fur  the  teachers  down  to  the  Mission 
Chapel,  ye'd  better  believe.  We  took  Jamie  'long  with  us 
once,  an'  ther'  was  one  of  'em — a  reg'lar  swell  she  was — she 
said  he  had  a  face  like  a  Heifer's  angel,  an'  she  wanted  to 
paint  'im.  But  Dick  he  said  he'd  promised  his  granny  that 
boy  shouldn't  go  out  o'  his  sight  till  she  got  back  from  her 
trip  to  Urop,  'n'  if  she  painted  Jamie  she'd  have  to  paint 
him,  too  ;   'n'  she  didn't  say  no  more  about  it. 

Yes,  we  did  use  to  have  good  times,  me  'n'  Dick.  'N' 
when  I  think  of  'em — 'n'  how  they  ended —  What  become 
of  him?     Well,  I'm  tellin'  ye,  ain't  I, — quick  as  I  can. 

We'd  be'n  havin'  a  reg'lar  smash-up  that  Sunday  down  to 
the  Plain.  'Twas  too  hot  to  go  to  Sunday-school,  even  to 
rattle  the  Countess,  'n'  I  s'pose  our  raisin'  such  rim  made  us 
tired,  'n'  we  slept  sounder  than  usual,   come  night.     Me  'n' 


88  WERNERS  READINGS 

Dick  'n'  the  little  cove  Lad  a  room  up  in  ole  Marm  Sally's 
attic  (we'd  be'n  flush  that  week)  'n'  was  sleepin'  there  swell 
as  ye  please.  I  guess  'twas  the  smoke  woke  n>o.  Anyhow, 
thet  old  shell  was  jest  a- blazin',  'n'  folks  a-puttin'  in  their 
best  licks  hollerin'    "  Fire  !"  when  I  got  to  know  anything. 

"  Git  up !"  yells  I,  to  Dick.  "  Git  up !  Can't  ye  see  the 
house  is  on  fire  ! ' ' 

In  less'n  a  minute  we  was  jest  sailin?  fur  them  rattley  old 
stairs.  They  hedn't  begun  to  blaze,  but  the  smoke  was 
comin'  up  like  a  furnace. 

"Come  along!"  yells  I,  "we'll  make 'em!" 

He  was  follerin'  close  behind  me,  with  the  little  cove  hold 
o'  his  hand. 

' '  Drive  ahead  ! ' '  says  he. 

We  got  about  half  way  down  all  right,  'n'  then — well,  I 
s'pose  'twas  the  smoke  scared  Jamie;  first  thing  we  knew 
he'd  pulled  away  his  hand. 

"  I  ain't  goin',"  yells  he,  'n'  went  t'arin'  back  like  all 
possessed,  'n'  as  if  that  room  was  the  safest  j)lace  in  the 
world,  'stead  o'  where  he  was  sure  o'  gittin'  roasted. 

Dick  stopped. 

"  I'm  goin'  back  after  him,"  says  he. 

"Come  along,  ye  bloomin'  idiot!"  says  I.  "Ye  can't 
git  him  !  He's  hid  under  the  bed.  Don't  ye  see  ye  can't 
never  git  down  if  ye  don't  come  clown  now." 

He  looked  down  to  where  them  stairs  was  all  a-beginnin' 
to  blaze,  'n'  then  he  grinned  a  little — he  wa'nt  no  coward  ! 

"Well,  I'll  try,"  says  he,  "  V  if  I  don't— good-bye, 
Bill!" 

The  next  second  he'd  gin  one  o'  his  tarin'  leaps  right  back 
ther'  into  the  smoke. 

Went  down?  Me?  Course  I  did!  It  wouldn't  done 
him  no  good  my  stayin'  there,  'n'  I  ain't  one  o'  the  kind 
what  t'rows  up  the  sponge  fur  nuttin'.  I  went  down  'n' 
rushed  up  the  road,  yellin'  fire  with  the  rest  o'  them,  'n' 
most  crazy  till  the  firemen  come,  'n'  then  I  showed  'em  the 
winder — 'twas  the  only  place  he  could  git  out — 'n'  helped  fix 
the  ladder.     A  fireman  was  jest  goin'  up  when  I  s-e  him  a- 


AND  RECITATIONS  No.  SI.  89 

standin'  ther',  with  tliet  same  grin  on  his  face  lie  alwers  hed 
when  he'd  done  a  good  t'ing  'n'  fooled  the  cops  out  of  a  job. 
He  stood  ther'  lookin'  like  a  sojer,  with  the  little  fool  a-cryin' 
'n'  screamin'  in  his  arms.  He'd  wrapped  him  in  his  coat  or 
sumthin',  so  he  wouldn't  get  sco'ched,  'n'  jest  as  he  leaned 
down  'n'  handed  him  to  the  fireman  he  see  me  ther'  in  the 
crowd,  'n'  swung  his  hand  'n'  gin  a  call  [imitation  of  a 
•street  hoy^s  cry] — the  way  we'd  'greed  on  to  let  the  other 
know  if  things  was  going  all  right  with  us.  'N'  then — then 
the  floor  he  was  standin'  on  gave  way,  I  guess — that's  the 
last  I  ever  see  o'  him ! 

Well,  I  dunno  as —  Look-a-here,  boss,  whatyer  givin'  us? 
I  ain't  cryin!  I  ain't  one  o'  the  kind  what  goes  around  sniv- 
elin'  like  a  milk  'n'  water  baby;  but  when  ye  talk  o'  bricks, 
he  was  a  jolly  one  'n'  no  mistake.  Kaw,  ther'  wa'n'  t  nuttin' 
said  about  it  in  the  papers.  I  was  the  only  one  knew  what 
made  him  go  back,  'n'  I  didn't  blab;  Dick  wa'n't  the  kind 
wanted  any  fuss  made  over  what  he  did.  But  I  told  the 
other  bootblacks,  'n'  we're  gittin'  him  up  a  stone  with  the 
name  on,  'n'  the  year.  Ain't  goin'  ter  have  no  slouch  of  a 
t'ing  fur  a  brick  like  he  was.  But  it  makes  us  stick  to  bus'- 
ness  pretty  close,  'n'  keep  on  the  lookout  fur  the  well- 
dressed  coves  as  we  t'ink —  Shine  yer  boots,  sir !  Nice  patent- 
leather  shine? 


FULFILMENT. 


SHE  grasped  the  bar,  arranged  her  skirts 
With  dainty  little  tucks  and  flirts ; 
Posed  on  the  saddle,  felt  the  tread 
Of  the  pedals,  and,  "  I'm  off,"  she  said. 

A  whirl  of  wheels,  a  swerve  and  sway, 
And  from  the  roadbed  where  she  lay 
She  realized  in  full  degree 
The  climax  of  her  prophecy. 


90  WERNERS  READINGS 


CASEY'S  LITTLE  BOY. 


NIXON"    AVATERMAN. 


CASEY'S  little  boy  was  one  the  neighbors  didn't  like, 
And  Parson  Hooker   called  him  once  an  ' '  onery  little 
tyke," 
Because  the  boy,  at  divers  times — he  did  it  just  for  fun — 
Would  give  the  Parson's  study  bell  an  awful  pull,  and  run. 

Of  freckles  Casey's  little  boy  had  plenty  and  to  spare. 
He  had  a  saucy  upturned  nose  and  likewise  "  sandy  "  hair. 
And  all  the  neighbors  chided  him  for  all  the  mischief  done, 
But  "  Ah,  gowan!"  was  the  response  he  gave  to  everyone. 

He  hardly  ever  went  to  school;  he  didn't  have  the  time; 
He  had  so  many  brooks  to  wade,  so  many  trees  to  climb, 
So  many  funny  boats  to  sail  and  waterwheels  to  build, 
With  all  these  more  important  things  his  busy  mind  was  filled. 

And  Sunday-school  and  church  to  him  were  not  a  joy,  alas ! 
If  left  to  his  desires  he  would  calmly  let  them  pass. 
He  hated  rules  of  conduct  and  was  nearly  always  seized 
With  an  immense  desire  to  be  doing  as  he  pleased. 

There  used  to  be  a  watermill  about  a  mile  away 
Where  Casey's  little  boy  would  go  and  loiter  every  day. 
He  loved  to  watch  the  water  as  it  hurried  through  the  race, 
And  scores  of  other  pleasures  seemed  to  centre  in  the  place. 

One  day  the  miller's  little  girl  fell  in  the  rushing  stream, 
As    Casey's   little    boy    came   by  and  heard  her  frightened 

scream. 
He  dove  beneath  the  wave  and  brought  her  safely  to  the  bank 
And  then  his  own  poor  strength  gave  out,  he  tottered  back 
and  sank. 

And  now  they've  built  a  monument  that  time  can  not  destroy, 
Which  says,  "  Here  Lies  a  Hero,"  meaning  Casey's  little  boy. 


AND  RECITATIONS  No.  SI.  91 


THE  SHERIFF  OF  CERR0-G0RD0. 


FRED  EMERSON  BROOKS. 

r  1  AHE  meanest  way  a  man  can  ride 
X   Is  backward  up  a  mountain-side 
In  some  old  stage  like  this,"  I  cried, 
"The  cold  winds  blowing!" 
"  Look  here  ! ' '  said  one,  ' '  ye're  not  well  versed 
The  sheriff's  ride  is  much  the  worst; 
He  sends  a  party  down  feet  first 
The  way  he's  going! 

"  Speakin'  o'  sheriffs,  jast  ye  wait! 
We've  got  the  best  one  in  the  State! 
Ye' 11  find  him  round  early  and  late 

'Tendin'  to  biz! 
And  if  the  first  one  that  we  meet 
On  Cerro-Gordo's  single  street 
Is  not  the  sheriff,  then  I'll  treat — 

The  fault's  not  his!" 

And  having  nothing  else  to  do, 

I  listened  while  these  miners  few 

Told  their  long  yarns,  and  told  them  through, 

To  suit  their  notion. 
At  last  we  scaled  the  mountain  brown  ; 
But  when  the  driver  set  us  down 
We  saw  the  little  mining  town 

Was  all  commotion. 

Our  friend,  who  seemed  to  be  the  "boss," 
Said  :    "What's  the  matter  here,  old  hoss  ?" 
The  one  addressed  seemed  at  a  loss 

To  tell  his  grief. 
But,  raising  his  uncovered  head, 
"The  sheriff's  funeral!"  he  said; 
"  For  know  ye,  boss,  our  sheriff's  dead, 

Shot  by  a  thief!" 


92  WERNER'S  READINGS 

"  Ye' ve  got  the  thief  ?     Well,  he  can  wait 
Until  the  judge  can  fix  his  fate — 

I  mean  Judge  Lynch,  the  magistrate ! 

The  selfsame  rope 
That  lowers  the  sheriff's  coffin  down 
Shall  drag  this  villain  through  the  town 
And  hang  him  where  he'll  never  drown, — 

High  up  the  slope ! ' ' 

* 'But  hain't  ye  got  no  funeral  sense  ? 
"What,  plant  a  pard,  and  send  him  hence 
Without  a  word  o'  reference 
From  his  last  place  ?" 
"We've  done  our  best!"  responded  they, 

II  For  preachers  never  come  this  way, 
And  none  of  i>s  knows  how  to  pray, 

Nor  e'en  say  grace!" 

"  Stranger,  look  here!   we're  in  a  fix! 

We  knows  a  heap  o'  politics, 

And  there's  no  rock  for  drills  and  picks 

That  we  hain't  blasted! 
But  when  it  comes  to  Bible  truck 
We're  always  driftin'  out  o'  luck; 
For  that's  a  ledge  we  never  struck! 

We're  flabbergasted ! 

"  We  knows  ye' re  smart.     Ye've  got  the  look 
O'  one  as  sometimes  reads  the  Book. 
Don't  say  ye  never  undertook 

To  play  the  preacher ! 
Ye  hain't  got  any  critics  here; 
And  them  as  stands  around  the  bier 
Will  always  swear  ye  are  the  peer 

O'  brother  Beecher ! 

cc  We're  glad  ye're  not,  twixt  you  and  me, 
Fur  ministers  are  apt  to  be 
Too  high  for  miners  such  as  we 
Down  in  the  drift ! 


AND  RECITATIONS  NO.  21.  93 

Although  there's  lots  we  sinners  need, 
Our  hearts  are  bigger  than  our  creed* 
But  set  us  on  some  Christian  deed 
We'll  work  our  shift ! 


"  The  sheriff,  sir,  was  brave  and  square! 
The  very  fact  he  didn't  swear 
Would  sort  o'  recommend  him  there, 

If  ye  would  say  it. 
Now  if  ye'd  tell  the  Lord  a  few 
O'  his  good  p'ints  to  help  him  through, 
We'll  gladly  do  as  much  for  you. 

Expense — we'll  pay  it! 

"I'll  tell  ye,  stranger,  just  ye  sav 
He  warn't  a  Sunday  saint,  no  way; 
But  take  his  average,  day  by  day, 

He'd  clean  up  well. 
Some  low-grade  mines  pan  out  the  more; 
But  whether  on  the  other  shore 
They  judge  a  man  as  we  judge  ore 

Is  hard  to  tell. 

"Just  over  yonder  on  the  knoll 
They've  sunk  a  sort  o'  prospect  hole. 
Now,  stranger,  please  to  take  control 

O'  this  poor  clay." 
Then  he  and  I  walked  on  ahead, 
And  sorrow  followed  with  the  dead, 
While  heaven  its  benediction  shed 

Of  closing  day. 

They  listened  all  with  bated  breath. 

I  told  them  what  the  good  Lord  saith — 

Man  must  in  life  prepare  for  death ! 

Their  hope  seemed  riven. 
I  said — yet  knew  no  reason  why — 
"Your  sheriff  has  gone  up  on  high!" 


WERNER'S  READINGS 

Man  never  heard  more  grateful  sigh 
For  comfort  given. 

I'd  got  him  up,  but  grew  perplexed 
To  know  what  course  I'd  follow  next; 
Tried  to  recall  some  pleasing  text 

"Would  keep  him  there. 
I'd  leave  him  at  the  throne  of  grace, 
E'en  if  I  knew  he  ran  a  race. 
Hurrying  to  the  other  place 

Of  dark  despair. 

I  couldn't  send  him  down  to  dwell — 
To  speak  the  truth,  I  couldn't  tell 
If  there  was  such  a  place  as  hell ; 

I'd  never  been  there! 
Said :   ' '  At  the  golden  gate  there  stood 
Our  Lord,  so  merciful  and  good, 
That  when  the  sheriff  came,  he  would 

No  doubt  get  in  there!" 

And  not  another  word  was  said, 
But  in  the  presence  of  the  dead 
Each  bowed  with  his  uncovered  head 

In  dumb  devotion ! 
At  such  a  time  speech  must  not  rob 
The  heaving  breast  of  one  faint  sob ; 
Whole  prayers  went  up  with  every  throb 

Of  their  emotion ! 

God  listens  best  when  silence  prays ! 
For  measured  word  and  rounded  phrase 
Oft  but  the  selfish  pride  betrays 

Of  creed  or  schism. 
While  meUing  prayers  dropped  from  their  eyes 
The  sleeping  sheriff  to  baptize, 
Think  you  kind  Heaven  would  quite  despise 

Such  soul-baptism  ? 


AND  RECITATIONS  No.  21.  95 


THE  OLE  PINE  BOX. 

FRANK  L.   STANTON. 

WE  didn't  care  in  the  l&ng-ago 
Fer  easy  chairs  'at  were  made  fer  shov/- 
With  velvet  cushions  in  red  and  black, 
An'  springs  'at  tilted  a  feller  back 
Afore  he  knowed  it — like  them  in  town- 
Till  his  heels  flew  up  and  his  head  went  down  I 
But  the  seat  we  loved  in  the  times  o'  yore 
Wuz  the  ole  pine  box  by  the  grocery  store ! 

Thar  it  sot  in  the  rain  an'  shine, 
Four  feet  long  by  the  measurin'  line; 
Under  the  chiny-berry  tree — 
Jes'  as  cozy  as  she  could  be ! 
Fust  headquarters  fer  infermation — 
Best  ole  box  in  the  whole  creation ; 
Hacked  an'  whittled  an'  wrote  with  rhyme} 
An'  so  blamed  sociable  all  the  time. 

Thar  we  plotted  an'  thar  we  planned, 

Head  the  news  in  the  paper,  an' 

Talked  o'  pollyticks  fur  an'  wide, 

Got  mixed  up  as  we  argyfied ! 

An'  the  ole  town  fiddler  sawed  awav 

At  "Ole  Dan  Tucker  "  an'  "Nellie  Gray  P; 

Oh,  they's  boxes  still — but  they  ain't  no  more 

Like  the  ole  pine  box  at  the  grocery  store. 

It  ain't  thar  now,  as  it  wuz  that  day — . 

Burnt,  I  reckon,  or  throwed  away ; 

An'  some  o'  the  folks  'at  the  ole  box  knowed 

Is  fur  along  on  the  dusty  road ; 

An'  some's  crost  over  the  river  wide 

An'  found  a  home  on  the  other  side. 

Have  they  all  forgot?     Don't  they  sigh  no  more 

Fer  the  ole  pine  box  by  the  grocery  store? 


96  WERNER'S  READINGS 


A  BORN  INVENTOR. 


HAKRY    STILLWELL   EDWARDS. 


[By  permission  of  the  author.] 

1  "^C^»  m-^  €)ear  neighbor,  I  don't  reckon  as  how  it's  possi- 

^  ^  ble  that  airy  nuther  sech  er  boy  do  live  on  the  face 
of  the  green  artli  as  our  Bill.  The  parson  says  as  how  he's 
a  born  inwenter,  an'  ter  let  him  speriment  all  he  wants  ter. 
A  man  named  Franklin,  he  said,  wouldn't  never  discivered 
Ameriky,  'cept  in  tliet  he  warasperinienter,  an'  if  Columbus 
hadn't  er  sperimented,  folks  wouldn't  er  known  ter  this  day 
what  chain  lightnin's  made  outer.  'Let  him  speriment/  says 
he,  an'  'Let  him  speriment/  says  I,  an'  speriment  he  do." 

One  day  Tom  offered  to  bet  all  the  seed  cotton  in  his  patch 
that  his  brother  Bill  could  fix  up  something  that  would  puzzle 
any  cyclone  in  the  world.  Bill's  idea  was  a  covered  passage 
leading  from  the  window  down  the  hill,  and  by  a  sharp  curve 
into  the  dairy.  Burning  with  the  fever  of  the  scheme,  he 
communicated  his  plans  to  Tom,  and  secured  at  first  a  power- 
ful ally.  The  two  boys  picked  cotton  at  forty  cents  per 
hundred  for  a  neighboring  planter,  and  secured  money  enough 
to  buy  the  necessary  lumber,  and  Bill  went  to  work  upon  the 
structure.  It  was  three  feet  wide  and  three  feet  high — inside 
measurement.  The  upper  end  rested  in  the  window  and  the 
lower  entered  the  old  subterranean  dairy,  the  rest  of  the 
opening  there  being  closed  with  stout  boards  and  dirt. 

"Bill,"  said.  Tom,  "folks  as  is  er-gittin'  away  from  a 
cyclone  ain't  expected  ter  move  erbout  in  style,  like  they  war 
er-goin  ter  er  quiltin'.  All  they  wants  ter  do  is  ter  git  up  an' 
git  till  the  thing  blows  over.  Now,  hit  do  seem  ter  me  that 
the  way  ter  fix  that  ar  thing  is  ter  grease  them  bottom  planks 
thar,  an'  when  the  time  comes  ter  be  er-movin',  jus'  git  in 
an'  scoot  down  ter  ther  bottom.  Hit  ain't  gwine  to  be  much 
used,  an'  I  reckon  we  can  stan'  it." 

"  Tom,"  said  Bill,  "  er  inwenter  hisself  can't  beat  ye  on 
that." 


AND  RECITATIONS  No.  SI.  97 

An'  so  it  was  settled.  One  day  when  the  boys  had  the 
premises  clear  they  removed  the  top  planks  and  greased  the 
floor  'way  to  the  bottom  of  the  hill,  until  a  squirrel  would 
have  found  it  difficult  to  navigate  it.  Then  they  restored,  the 
planks  and  waited.  But  no  cyclone  came.  Mrs.  Gunner 
surveyed  the  structure  many  a  day,  but  asked  no  questions. 

To  a  neighbor  she  said  once  : 

"  I  caint  see  exactly  as  how  ther  thing  is  goin'  ter  wurk, 
but  Bill  is  er  inwenter,  an'  he  knows.  He  says  thar  ain't  no 
use  er-gettin'  skeered  at  cyclones  an'  the  like,  nohow." 

It  is  probably  not  true  that  the  boys  prayed  for  a  cyclone, 
but  every  wind  raised  hopes  in  their  bosoms,  and  not  a  cloud 
passed  but  brought  suggestions. 

"  Bill,"  said  Tom,  one  night  as  they  lay  awake,  "  I  reckon 
hit's  \\\  right,  but  'pears  ter  me  we  hedn't  orter  take  no 
chances;  we  orter  know.  When  we  war  over  ter  Maccola's 
last  year  'ith  the  cotton,  ye  recollect  how  they  used  ter  ring 
ther  bells  an'  turn  out  thar  ter  put  out  fires  when  thar  warn 't 
no  fires  ter  put  out?  Er  feller  told  me  they  war  er-practicin' 
ter  know  jus'  what  ter  do  if  er  shore  enuf  fire  war  ter  come 
erlong.  Looks  like  we  orter  practice  fur  cyclones  'fore  they 
come.   Ye  know  gran'pa  es  contrary  an'  ma  es  powerful  hefty. " 

"  Tom,"  said  Bill,  "let's  try  hit  ternight." 

But  Tom's  judgment  was  cooler. 

"Hit  wouldn't  do  ternight ;  thar  ain't  no  wind,  an'  ma  'u'd 
never  let  us  practice  on  her,  less  'n  she  was  powerful  skeered. 
Wait  till  er  big  win'  comes." 

Fortune  favored  the  inventor.  There  came  a  week  of 
heavy  rain  and,  finally,  one  night  a  terrific  wind. 


"  Come  in,  come  in !  La,  Nanky,  w'at  ye  done  to  Bill's 
things  ?  ' ' 

"  Bill  ain't  inwentin'  much  these  days." 

"  How  comes?  " 

"Well,  Cis'ly  Toorner,  hit's  a  long  story.  Hit  all  come 
uv  the  cyclone  a  while  back,  an'  Bill  er-tryin'  ter  in  went 
somethin'  ter  beat  it." 


08  WERNER'S  READINGS 

"  La'  sakes,  an'  wouldn't  hit  work?  " 

' '  "Work  ?  I  reckon  ye  never  seen  nutliin'  work  like  hit. 
Hit  like  ter  worked  me  an'  pa  ter  death." 

"Nanky,  hush!  " 

"Fact!  Hit's  piled  up  thar  behind  ther  house  now,  but 
hit  ain't  nuthin'  like  it  was,  when  hit  war  fixed  up  an'  ready 
fer  cy clones.  Now,  hain't  nobody  on  airth  skeerder  'n  me 
uv  win.'  One  night  arter  hit  'd  been  er-rainin'  ferer  week, 
an'  ther  win'  war  blowin'  powerful,  I  war  settin'  up,  an'  pa, 
he  war  in  bed  er-tryin'  ter  git  ter  sleep,  when  I  heern  a 
boomin'  on  the  air  outside.  Ever  hyar  one  uv  them  thar 
engines  w' at  burn  coal  stidder  wood,  boomin'?  Well,  they 
done  got  ter  runnin'  'em  on  the  railroad  out  thar  back  o'  the 
house,  an'  the  first  one  comes  erlong  that  night  on  ther  cut. 
I  never  war  skeered  so  bad  since  the  Lord  made  me.  I  run 
across  ther  room  an'  jerked  paup  in  bed.  '  Git  up,  git  up  !  ' 
I  yelled.  Jes'  then  BiU  an'  Tom  come  er-runnin'  in,  too, 
yellin'  out,  '  Cyclone !  cyclone  !  '  loud  as  they  could.  I  war 
mighty  nigh  ready  ter  drop.  'Save  pa!  save  pa!'  I  hol- 
lered. Pa  he  half  knowed  w'at  war  gwine  on,  an'  he  hol- 
lered, 'Help!  help!'  an'  war  gittin'  out,  when  the  boys  got 
er  holt  er  him,  an'  run  across  ther  room  an'  shoved  'im  foot 
foremost  inter  the  inwention.  Pa,  he  hollered,  '  Heigh-ho, 
]STank!'  an'  was  gone.  I  got  thar  jest  in  time  ter  see  his 
white  head  go  round  the  bend.  An'  then  I  heern  er 
k-chunk,  an*  pa,  he  hollered  'Hoo-oo-oo!' 

"I  orter  hed  mo'  sense,  but  la!  when  a  woman  gits 
skeered  bad  she  hain't  got  no  sense  'tall.  Ther  engine  then 
war  right  back  'n  the  house,  an'  everything  war  jest  trem- 
blin'.  Bill  he  yelled  out  '  Git  in,  ma,  git  in,  hit's er-comin !' 
I  didn't  wait  er  minit,  but  clum  up  in  a  cheer  an'  got  in. 
Ther  boys  gi'  me  a  shuv,  an'  down  I  went.  I  reckon  I 
mighty  nigh  filled  the  whole  inwention,  fer  I  war  tetchin' 
everywhar.  Skeered?  The  cyclone  warn't  nuthin.  Time 
I  got  ter  the  ben'  I  slid  round  like  a  gourd  over  ther  mill- 
dam,  an'  hit  in  two  foot  er  water  down  thar.  I  war  scream- 
in'  ter  be  heard  er  mile.  Tom  an'  Bill  like  ter  not  come,  hit 
skeered  'em  so,  but  ther  engine  war  then  mighty  nigh  er- 


AND  RECITATIONS  No.  21.  99 

shakm'  ther  pans  off  the  shelf,  an'  down  they  come,  too, 
k-chunk,  in  the  water.  Ye  see  they  had  stopped  up  the 
old  dairy  with  planks  an'  dirt,  till  it  held  water  like  er  well, 
an'  ther  rain  hed  soaked  down.  Ther  place  war  dark  es 
pitch,  an'  w'at  'ith  me  er-screamin',  an'  pa  er-sittin  over  in 
the  corner  er-hollerin',  hit  like  ter  skeered  the  like  outern 
Bill.  Erbout  that  time  hit  cum  ter  him  thet  he  hedn't  in- 
wented  no  way  ter  git  outer  ther  thing.  I  war  er-screamin  : 
'  Git  me  outen  hyar,  an'  open  ther  do' !  an'  '  O  Lordy,  my 
back!'  till  the  boy  war  mighty  nigh  crazy." 
"  Nanky,  how'n  ther  world  did  yer  git  out  ?  " 
' '  Tom  clum  back  up  ther  spout  arter  mighty  hard  work, 
an'  tuk  er  ax,  an'  busted  the  dairy  open.  Me  an'  'im  pulled 
pa  out  an'  put  'im  in  bed.  I  sot  up  ther  rest  o'  the  night,  fur 
ther'  war  no  sleep  in  my  eyes, — an'  bright  an'  early  the  next 
mornin' ,  I  tuk  that  boy  Bill  out  under  the  shed  an'  when  I 
war  through  thrashin'  'im,  I'd  knocked  all  ther  inwentions  ter 
pieces,  an'  said  'No  more  inwentions  on  this  place,'  an'  I 
put  'em  ter  wurk.  See  them  two  boys  over  yonder  in  ther 
cotton  patch?     One  uv  them  is  ther  born  inwentor." 


BIDE  A  WEE,  AND  DINNA  FRET. 


I 


S  the  road  very  dreary? 
Patience  yet ! 
Rest  will  be  sweeter  if  thou  art  aweary, 
And  after  the  night  cometh  the  morning  cheery ; 
Then  bide  a  wee,  and  dinna  fret. 

The  clouds  have  silver  lining, 
Don't  forget; 
And  though  he's  hidden,  still  the  sun  is  shining. 
Courage !  Instead  of  tears  in  vain  repining, 

Just  bide  a  wee,  and  dinna  fret. 

With  toils  and  cares  unending 
Art  beset? 


100  WERNERS  READINGS 

Bethink  thee  how  the  storms  from  heaven  descending 
Snap  the  stiff  oak,  but  spare  tre  willow  bending, 
And  bide  a  wee,  and  dinna  fret. 

Grief  sharper  sting  doth  borrow 
From  regret ; 
But  yesterday  is  gone,  and  shall  its  sorrow 
Unfit  us  for  the  present  and  to-morrow? 

!N"ay,  bide  a  wee,  and  dinna  fret. 

An  overanxious  brooding 
Doth  beget 
A  host  of  fears  and  fantasies  deluding; 
Then,  brother,  lest  the  torments  be  intruding, 

Just  bide  a  wee,  and  dinna  fret. 


JIM  BLUDSO. 


JOHN    HAY. 

"\ A7"ALL,  no !   I  can't  tell  whar  he  lives, 

Because  he  don't  live,  you  see; 
Leastways,  he's  got  out  of  the  habit 

Of  livin'  like  you  and  me. 
Whar  have  you  been  for  the  last  three  year? 

That  you  haven't  heard  folks  tell 
Plow  Jimmy  Bludso  passed  in  his  checks 

The  night  of  the  Prairie  Belle  f 

He  weren't  no  saint — them  engineers 

Is  all  pretty  much  alike — 
One  wife  in  ISTatchez-under-the-Hill, 

And  another  one  here  in  Pike. 
A  keerkss  man  in  his  talk  was  Jim, 

And  an  awkward  hand  in  a  row; 
But  he  never  flunked  and  he  never  lied— 

I  reckon  he  never  knowed  how. 

And  this  was  all  the  religion  he  had— 

To  treat  his  engine  well; 
Never  be  passed  on  the  river; 


AND  RECITATIONS  No.  21.  101 

To  mind  the  pilot's  bell; 
And  if  ever  the  Prairie  Belle  took  fire—- 

A  thousand  times  he  swore 
He'd  hold  her  nozzle  ag'in'  the  bank 

Till  the  last  soul  got  ashore. 

All  boats  has  their  day  on  the  Mississip', 

And  her  day  come  at  last. 
The  Movastar  was  a  better  boat, 

But  the  Belle  she  wouldn't  be  passed. 
And  so  she  came  tearin'  along  that  night — 

The  oldest  craft  on  the  line — ■ 
With  a  nigger  squat  on  her  safety-valve, 

And  her  furnace  crammed^rosin  and  pine. 

The  fire  burst  out  as  she  cl'ared  the  bar, 

And  burnt  a  hole  in  the  night, 
And,  quick  as  a  flash,  she  turned  and  made 

For  that  wilier  bank  on  the  right. 
There  was  runnin'  and  cussin',  but  Jim  yelled  out, 

Over  all  the  infernal  roar : 
'I'll  hold  the  nozzle  ag'in'  the  bank 

Till  the  last  galoot's  ashore!" 

Through  the  hot,  black  breath  of  the  burnin'  boat 

Jim  Eludso's  voice  was  heard, 
And  they  all  had  trust  in  his  cussedness, 

And  knowed  he  wornd  keep  his  word. 
And,  sure's  you're  born,  they  all  got  ofl 

Afore  the  smoke-stack  fell ; 
And  Bludso's  ghost  went  up  alone 

In  the  smoke  of  the  Prairie  Belle. 

He  weren't  no  saint,  but  at  Jedgment 

I'd  run  my  chance  with  Jim 
'Longside  of  some  pious  gentlemen 

That  wouldn't  shook  hands  with  him. 
He  seen  his  duty — a  dead  sure  thing- — 

And  went  for  it  thar  and  then  ; 
And  Christ  ain't  a-goin'  to  be  too  hard 

On  a  man  that  died  for  men. 


102  WERNERS  READINGS 


UNCLE  ISRUL'S  CALL 


CAEOLINE    H.    STANLEY. 

THERE  was  certainly  something  going  on  out  under  the 
locusts, — of  that  Aunt  Cla'sy  was  convinced. 

Uncle  Isrul,  her  husband,  sat  with  his  split-bottomed  chair 
tilted  back  against  the  tree,  an  open  Bible  on  his  lap.  His 
visitors — two  middle-aged,  respectable-looking  colored  men — 
were  in  earnest  conversation  with  him.  Neither  their 
thoughts  nor  their  eyes  were  on  the  cabin,  and  Aunt  Cla'sy 
advanced  boldly  in  front  of  the  window,  and  sat  down  be- 
hind the  hop-vine,  where  she  could  see  if  not  hear. 

"  I  ain't  gwine  ter  be  onderhanded  'bout  it,"  she  said, 
virtuously,  and  it  seemed  for  a  moment  as  if  virtue  was  to  be 
rewarded,  for  just  then  Brother  Jimmerson  raised  his  voice, 
and  said  impressively : 

"  Hit's  de  sentimunts  of  de  chu'ch,  Uncle  Isrul.  I  ain't 
a-talkin'  fur  myself.  I'se  jest  a  po'  ornery  implement  in  de 
Lord's  hands  to  spressify  de  sentimunts  of  de  chu'ch." 

Aunt  Cla'sy  fairly  started  from  her  chair.  What  could 
this  mean  but  that  the  long-looked-f or  "  raise  "  in  Uncle 
Isrul' s  salary  had  come  at  last. 

"'Rheumatiz' — 'chu'ch  jues  ' — aha!  dey  done  hyeard 
dat  his  rheumatiz  is  wuss  an'  dey  gwinc  double  up  on  de 
chu'ch  jues  an'  pay  him  somethin'  reg'lar  and  cornstant — 
and  hit's  de  sentimunt  of  de  church.  Well,  bless  de  Lord  fur 
dem  sentimunts!" 

"  I'se  jes'  one  of  de  Lord's  schtowards,"  said  Brother 
Jimmerson. 

"An'  a  faithful  schtoward  you  is!  "  piously  ejaculated 
Aunt  Cla'sy,  behind  the  hop-vine,  and,  satisfied  that  she  had 
fathomed  the  object  of  their  visit,  she  applied  her  mind  to 
the  furtherance  of  the  dinner. 

Uncle  Isrul  was  pastor  of  the  colored  Baptist  church  of 
Eulton,  and  had  been  since  the  war.      In  the  days  of  slavery 


AND  RECITATIONS  No.  21.  103 

he  had  sat  in  the  gallery  of  the  Presbyterian  church  with  the 
other  negroes  and  drank  into  his  untutored  soul  the  words  of 
Holy  Writ  is  they  fell  from  the  lips  of  the  preacher ;  longing 
with  an  intensity  of  longing  that  perhaps  no  lettered  man 
could  understand,  to  be  able  to  read  it  all  for  himself. 

"  Ef  so  be  I  could  jes'  read  enough  to  pick  a  few  nv  dem 
texes  out — jes'  dem  wha'  holp  me  so  much,"  he  would  say 
to  himself,  turning  impotently  the  leaves  of  his  Bible. 

But  alas !  they  all  looked  alike  to  him. 

"  Well,  Uncle  Isrul,"  said  the  little  daughter  of  his 
master,  one  day,  "  I  don't  truly  believe  I  can  teach  you,  but 
I'll  tell  you  what  I'll  do :  You  just  tell  me  your  favorite 
texts,  and  I'll  mark  'm  some  way  so  you'll  know  'm,  and 
then  you  can  look  at  the  words  and  siy  'm,  and  play  like  you 
was  readin'  'm." 

The  plan  was  actually  pursued,  and  so  it  came  about  that 
many  passages  in  the  New  Testament  and  the  Psalms  were 
marked  with  cabalistic  signs  in  black,  blue,  and  red  ink — 
whose  meaning  was  known  only  to  Uncle  Isrul  and  his  little 
teacher.  It  was  a  comfort  to  the  simple-minded  old  man,  al- 
most beyond  belief,  to  be  able  to  turn  to  a  chapter  having 
three  red  crosses  and  repeat:  c'In  my  Father's  house  are  many 
mansions,  .  .  .  I  go  to  prepare  a  place  for  you,"  and 
know  that  the  words  said  just  that. 

When  the  colored  church  of  Fulton  went  off  by  itself, 
after  the  war,  Uncle  Isrul  seemed  to  be  its  natural  spiritual 
leader.  So,  without  much  ceremony  of  laying  on  of  hands, 
he  was  duly  installed  in  the  ministerial  office. 

It  is  not  to  be  understood  that  Uncle  Isrul 's  pastoral  duties 
interferred  with  his  daily  labors,  or  that  his  pastoral  salary 
obviated  at  all  the  necessity  for  such  labors.  Of  course,  at 
hog-killing  time,  he  had  donations  of  back- bones,  and  spare- 
ribs,  and  sausage-meat,  from  his  parishioners ;  but  as  he  was 
expected,  in  his  turn,  to  entertain  the  visiting  clergy,  the 
outgo  more  than  counterbalanced  the  income  from  this 
source. 

So  it  is  not  to  be  wondered  at  that  Aunt  Cla'sy  should 
long  have  prayed  in  secret  for  something  "  reg'lar  and  corn- 


104  WERNER'S  READINGS 

stant,"  and  that  her  soul  should  have  shouted  within  her  at 
the  prospect  of  the  fruition  of  her  hopes. 

When  they  sat  down  to  the  table,  it  seemed  to  Aunt  Cla'sy 
that  Uncle  Isrul  did  not  look  as  ranch  elated  as  the  occasion 
warranted. 

"Wa'n't  dat  Bro'  Jimraerson  an'  Bro'  Ballard  out  hyarn- 
der  in  de  yard  a  while  ago?  "  she  asked. 

"  Dat's  who  it  wuz,"  replied  Uncle  Isrnl,  laconically. 

"Whut  dey  come  fuh?" 

Uncle  Isrnl  did  not  make  an  immediate  answer.  Finally  he 
picked  up  the  butcher  knife  and  began  slicing  off  meat,  aim- 
lessly. 

"  Eat  yo'  dinner  now,  Cla'sy,"  he  said,  ''I'll  tell  you 
arter  a  while." 

A nnt  Cla'sy  stopped  in  the  act  of  carrying  a  saucerful  of 
coffee  to  her  mouth. 

"  AVhut's  de  matter  wi'  you,  ole  man?"  she  demanded. 
"Stop  cutthi1  up  dat  meat!  "  Then  imperatively:  "Now, 
I  wanter  know  what  dem  niggers  come  fuh." 

"Well,"  said  Uncle  Isrul,  desperately,  "dey  come  ter 
bring  de  'nouncement  dat  my  suvices  is  not  required  any 
mo'.      Cla'sy,  dey  gwine  git  another  preacher." 

"Another  preacher !  Whar  dey  gwine  git  'im?  Whut 
dey  want  another  preacher  fnr?  " 

Uncle  Isrul  leaned  on  the  table  to  steady  himself,  but  Aunt 
Cla'sy  pushed  back  her  chair  belligerently  and  sat  bolt  up- 
right. 

"  Dey  say  dey  might' ly  bleeged  ter  me  fur  all  I  has  done 
fur  'm  in  de  pas',  Cla'sy,  an'  Bro'  Jimmerson  he  'low  dey 
wa'n't  never  gwine  ter  furgit  de  pra'rs — an'  snpplecations 
at  de  Throne  uv  Grace — I  has  put  up  fur  'm " 

"Humph!"  snorted  Aunt  Cla'sy,  "  dis  hyeah  piece  o' 
work  look  lak  dey  mighty  thankful !" 

"  But  dey  say  fur  de  future  time  dey  bleeged  ter  have  some- 
body whut'smo'  better  educated — somebody  whut  kin  read." 

"Whar  dey  gwine  find  him?"  demanded  Aunt  Cla'sy, 
pushing  her  chair  back  and  flinging  defiance  to  the  world  in 
the  upward  toss  of  her  head.      "Dey  ain't  a  nigger  roun' 


AND  RECITATIONS  No.  21.  105 

hyear  kin  read,  'cep'n'  'tis  de  chil'n  what's  learned  since  de 
Proclamation.     Now,  whar  you  gwine  find  'im?" 

"Dey  done  found  'im,  Cla'sy.  Hit's  a  young  man  wlia' 
gwine  teach  de  school  nex'  winter.  Dey  gin  'im  a  call  an' 
he  done  'cepted  it.  He  gwineter  to  be  liyear  nex'  Sunday. 
Bro'  Jimmerson  he  say  he  talk  Greek  jes'  lak  it  was  his 
mother's  tongue.  Ef  you  ax  him  a  question,  he's  jes'  ez  apt 
to  answer  in  Greek  ez  any  other  way,  unbeknownst  to  his- 
self — it  come  so  nachel  to  'im — dat's  whut  Bro'  Jimmerson 
say.  Dey  call  'im  de  Rev.  Paphroditis  Plummer,  an'  dey 
say  hit  ain'  fittin',  now  we's  free,  to  have  a  preacher  called 
'  Uncle.'     Dey  say  hit's  ondignified. " 

"  Den  what  make  dey  doan  call  you  Bro'  Craghead,  lak  I 
tole  'm  to?  I  alius  say  Uncle  Isrul  wa'n't  a  'spectful  en- 
titlement fur  a  minister  of  de  Gawspel,  but  dey  say  dey  can't 
break  deyse'ves  o'  sayin'  it.  Dey  sholy  ain't  gwine  lay  dat 
up  ag'in'  you." 

"An'  den,"  continued  Uncle  Isrul,  "dey  say,  sence  my 
rheumatiz  has  been  so  bad,  dey  doan  feel  noways  safe  to  trus' 
deyse'ves  to  me  in  de  time  uv-  baptizin's,  de  heavy  one  mo' 
specially.  An'  las'ly,"  pursued  Uncle  Isrul,  conscientiously 
giving  every  argument  advanced  by  Bro1  Jimmerson,  "dey 
say  dat  whilst  dey  ain't  got  no  manner  of  objection  to  de  texes 
I  preach  fum,  dey  do  cornsider  that  de  intruss  uv  de  risin' 
generation  call  fur  mo'  uv'm  den  what  I'se  got  in  my  head  ; 
an',  Cla'sy," — in  a  voice  in  which  doubt  and  grief  were  min- 
gled,— "  I  reckon — I  reckon  dey's  right  about  it." 

"Now,  old  man,"  said  Aunt  Cla'sy,  raising  one  hand  im- 
pressively, "you  stop  right  dar!  Dey  ain't  right  about  it. 
Hit's  a  sin  an'  a  shame  fur  'em  to  turn  you  off  jes'  caze  dey 
wanter  put  on  a'rs  lak  dey  wuz  white  folks — an'  yo'  spells 
gittin'  wuzz  all  de  time — an'  all.  I  say  hit's  a  burnin'  shame, 
an'  I  ain't  never  gwine  inside  dat  church  whilst  I  live — so 
dar  now,  you  got  it!" 

This  was  Aunt  Cla'sy's  ultimatum.  From  it  she  was  not 
to  be  moved. 

The  week  that  followed  was  a  trying  one  to  both  of  them. 
It  is  hard   to   be  laid  aside — to  feel  that  one's  best  is  not 


106  WERNER'S  READINGS 

enough.  Uncle  Isrul  went  about  his  work,  weighed  down 
with  a  sense  of  humiliation — it  was  such  a  disgrace ! 

"  I'se  jes'  lak  a  ole  hoss  turnt  out  in  de  pasture  to  die," 
he  said  to  himself,  bitterly. 

He  tried  hard,  poor  old  soul,  to  see  the  Lord's  hand  in  it, 
turning  over  and  over  in  his  mind,  as  he  chopped  wood,  all 
Brother  Jimmerson's  argument. 

"Ef  I  could  jes'  read,"  he  thought,  "I  could  git  some 
new  texes. " 

But  then  he  knew  he  would  never  read. 

"  Seem  lak  dey  might  'a'  put  up  with  it  a  little  longer,"  he 
said  to  himself,  one  day,  straightening  up  with  the  sudden 
'mis'ry  in  his  chis','  which  Aunt  Cla'sy  so  much  feared,  "I 
ain't  gwine  ter  be  hyear  long,  but  while  I  is,  O  Lord!  how 
I  gwine  stan'  it  to  see  dat  man  in  my  pulp^/  " 

When  Sunday  came  Uncle  Isrul  went  about  his  accustomed 
preparations  for  the  day  as  he  had  done  for  the  last  fifty 
years.  This  week  had  told  on  him.  He  had  had  more  than 
one  of  his  "  spells,"  and  his  face  looked  pinched  and  ghastly 
in  the  little  glass  before  which  he  was  shaving.  Outwardly 
calm,  he  was  laboring  under  intense  excitement.  Ashe  put  on 
his  venerable  stock,  Aunt  Cla'sy  looked  in  from  the  shed-room. 

"Isrul  Craghead,"  she  said,  "is  you  gwineter  so  demean 
yo'se'f  as  ter  go  ter  hyeah  dat  man  preach  in  yo'  pulpit?" 

Uncle  Isrul  laid  down  the  venerable  doeskin  coat  that  had 
so  long  marked  for  him  the  change  from  secular  to  sacred 
things,  and  said,  with  slow  emphasis : 

"Cla'sy,  I'se  been  a  follerer  uv  de  Lord  fer  mo'n  fifty 
yeahs,  an'  I'se  nigh  on  to  de  eend  of  my  pilgumage.  Whilst 
my  Master  give  me  strength  ter  git  dar,  I'se  never  gwine  ter 
stay  away  fum  de  sanctuary.  I  cert'n'y  is  gwme  to  hyeah 
Bro'  Plummer  dis  mawnin'." 

A  moment  later  Uncle  Isrul  was  toiling  up  the  dusty  street 
to  the  church,  fortifying  himself  as  he  went  with  all  the 
"texes"  at  his  command.  Aunt  Cla'sy  looked  after  him 
with  a  sore  heart. 

"  Po' ole  creeter!"she  said,  "  po' ole  creeter!  He  ain't 
gwine  to  be  hyeah  long — dat's  a  Gawd's  truth !" 


AND  RECITATIONS  No.  21.  107 

She  broke  off  abruptly  as  a  chicken,  scared  by  her  uplifted 
apron,  went  squawking  across  the  yard.  It  changed  the  cur- 
rent of  her  thoughts. 

"  I  gwine  ter  have  fried  chicken  an'  aig-bread  fur  'is  din- 
ner'g'nst  he  gits  back,"  she  thought.  "Hit'll  spile  dat 
dozen  I've  been  savin'  fer  Miss  Sallie — but  I  gwine  do  it, 
anyhow." 

When  Uncle  Isrul  sat  down  to  the  table  that  Aunt  Cla'sy's 
prodigality  had  thus  spread  with  the  delicacies  of  the  season, 
there  was  on  his  face  such  a  peaceful  look  as  it  had  not  worn 
for  a  week. 

He  was  not  in  a  talkative  mood,  and  Aunt  Cla'sy,  who  was 
inwardly  devoured  with  curiosity,  waited  impatiently  for  him 
to  open  up  the  conversation.  At  last  she  could  stand  it  no 
longer. 

"  Did — did  ho  preach  in  Greek?  "  she  asked. 

"  No-o,"  said  Uncle  Isrul,  slowly  and  with  a  puzzled  ex- 
pression, "no,  dat's  jes'  whut  I  wuz  stud'n'  'bout,  Cla'sy. 
Dat  man's  talk  wuz  jes*  ez  simple!  Any  chile  could  'a'  on- 
derstood  'im.  An'  he  ax  me  in  de  pulpit,  an'  he  called  on 
me  to  lead  in  pra'r." 

"  Hm!  "  breathed  Aunt  Cla'sy,  perceptibly  mollified. 

"  Whenst  I  got  to  de  chu'ch  I  wuz  so  tired,  an'  it  was  so 
powerful  hot,  that  I  sat  down  in  de  va  back  seat." 

Aunt  Cla'sy  understood. 

"  "Well,  arter  while  Bro'  Plummer,  he  seed  me  an'  he  riz 
up  an'  says,  says  'e :  'I  see  our  venerable  Brother  Craghead 
is  present.      Will  he  please  come  up  in  de  pulpit?  '  " 

"An'  I  boun'  you  went?  " 

"  Toob-be-sho  I  went.  An'  he  shuck  hands  wi'  me  an' 
gimme  de  ha'rcloth  cheer  whilst  he  tuck  de  split-bottom.  An' 
den  arter  de  surmcn  he  say  :  'Brothren,  I  knows  you  won't 
be  no  ways  satisfied  to  go  way  'dout  hearin'  de  voice  of 
Brother  Craghead  in  pra'r,'  an'  Bro  Jimmerson  over  in  de 
cornder,  he  say,  right  out  loud,  '  Dat's  so.  Lord.'  " 

"  Right  out  'fo'de  man?  "  asked  Aunt  Cla'sy,  in  pleased 
remonstrance. 


108  WERNER'S  READINGS 

"  Yaas,  yaas,  an'  den,  Cla'sy,  I  did  wrastle  fur'm  at  de 
Throne  uv  Grace — I  cert'n'y  did." 

"What  de  man  preach  about?  "  inquired  the  old  woman, 
after  a  few  moments  of  respectful  silence. 

"  "Well,  now,  dat  wuz  de  beatines'  part  of  it  all.  Dat  young 
man  got  up  dar  an'  tuck  my  ia,v  or  ite  tex',  '  In  my  Father's 
house  are  many  mansions. '  Seem  lak  it  was  a  ole  friend  I 
wuz  ineetin'  in  a  strange  place.  An'  he  made  it  all  so  plain  ! 
Look  lak  death  wuz  jes'  gwine  frum  one  room  to  de  nex'. 
An'  den  de  mansions !  Cla'sy,  as  long  as  I  has  had  dat  tex' 
in  my  min'  I  never  seed  dem  mansions  befo'  lak  I  seed'm  to- 
day. He  say  der  gwine  ter  be  one  fuh  all  of  us — a  mansion 
full  de  rich  an'  a  mansion  fuh  de  po'-  -a  mansion  fuh  dem 
what  knows  a  heap,  an',  Cla'sy,  a  mansion  for  dem  what 
cant  read !  He  say  over  dar  we  all  gwine  ter  have  our 
chances." 

Uncle  Isrul  looked  past  Aunt  Cla'sy  into  the  blue  sky,  a 
rapt  expression  on  his  face,  as  if  from  E"ebo's  height  the 
beatific  vision  was  even  now  bursting  upon  his  sight. 

He  went  out  soon  to  his  favorite  seat  under  the  locusts, 
and  Aunt  Cla'sy  took  this  occasion  to  visit  a  sick  neighbor 
whom  she  had  neglected  in  her  soul- rebellion  of  the  last 
week.  She  stayed  longer  than  she  had  intended,  and  when 
she  returned  and  saw  Uncle  Isrul  still  sitting  under  the  trees, 
her  first  thought  was  of  his  imprudence. 

"  Isrul,  aw  Isrul !"  she  called.  "You  better  come  in  de 
house  'fo'  de  jew  falls.  You'll  be  havin'  one  o'  yo'  spells 
fust  thing  you  know." 

Uncle  Isrul  did  not  stir. 

"  Believe  in  my  soul  dat  nigger's  sleep,"  she  muttered,  go- 
ing toward  him  and  laying  her  hands  on  his  shoulder. 

The  old  man's  chin  drooped  on  his  breast ;  his  Bible,  open 
at  the  three  red  crosses,  was  on  his  knee,  and  his  finger  rested 
on  the  words,  "In  my  Father's  house  are  many  mansions." 

Aunt  Cla'sy  gave  one  scared  look  at  his  peaceful  face. 

"  Isrul !   Isrul !  "  she  called.      "  O  my  Lord  !   Isrul !  " 

There  was  no  response.     Uncle  Isrul  had  had  his  call. 


AND  RECITATIONS  No.  21.  109 


THE  OLD  DARKY'S  DEFENSE. 


"O 


LD  man,  the  charge  is  assaulting 
An  officer  of  the  court, 
And  resisting  the  execution 

Of  a  warrant  (says  the  report) 
In  a  suit  for  rent  non-payment, 

By  a  Mistress  Mary  Lee. 
Are  you  guilty  or  not  guilty? 
I'm  ready  to  hear  your  plea." 

"  Well,  jedge,  I  s'pec'  I'se  guilty 

On  medjerment  by  de  law 
On  whut  I  dun  ter  de  ge'man, 

An'  jedgin'  hit  in  de  raw ; 
But,  jedge,  when  yer  heahs  der  statesmen 

How  de  fracas  cam'  ter  be, 
I  hopes  yer'll  make  de  sentence 

Ez  light  ez  yer  kin  on  me. 

"  Yer  see,  Miss  Mary  am  sickly, 

A  puny  mite  ob  a  t'ing, 
An'  loss  her  onlies  husban' 

Dess  a  year  ago  last  spring. 
Dey  wuz  po',  an'  libbin'  skimpy 

On  de  leetle  he  yearned  at  law ; 
Kase  dey  nach'ully  loss  dere  forchin, 

At  de  bu'stin'  up  ob  de  wah. 

' '  An'  sence  Mars  Lee  uz  tooken 

An'  lef  her  all  alone, 
She  ain't  had  bat  almos'  nuffin' 

Dat  she  c'u'd  call  her  own ; 
An'  me  an'  my  ole  'oman, 

A-knowin'  her  sense  she's  bo'n, 
Divided  our  rashuns  wid  'er 

Ter  he'p  'er,  off  and  on. 


110  WERNER'S  READINGS 

"  But  yis'day  mawnin'  'arly, 

Wen  dis  bailiff  cum  ter  han* 
An'  swo'  lie  uz  gwine  ter  lebby 

On  her  ebry  pot  an'  pan, 
I  beckon  'im  round  de  corner, 

An'  axed  'im :  '  Don't  be  brash, 
An'  I'll  git  yer  up  de  money 

By  pawndin'  some  ob  my  trash.' 

"  But  he  wouldn't  wait  fer  a  minit, 

An'  sed  dat  she  had  ter  go ; 
Dat  he  uz  gwine  ter  seize  de  premises, 

An'  batten  up  de  do'. 
Den,  jedge,  I  f ergot  he  uz  bailiff, 

An'  sarvin  a  writ  ob  cote; 
Fer  my  heart  an'  mem'ry  tangled, 

An'  lodged  heah  in  my  thote. 

"  I  jess  seed  dat  bailiff  libbin, 

Fer  long  befo'  de  wah, 
i  In  a  house  ole  marster  gib  him 

Ter  sheltah  his  po'  ole  ma, 
An'  de  patch  he  had  fer  nuffin 

On  de  udder  side  de  creek ; 
An'  me  a-totin'  em  rashuns 

Dess  cons' unly  ebery  week. 

"  An'  de  way  dis  bailiff  uz  actin* 

Ter  ole  marster' s  onlies  chile 
Dess  made  my  han's  feel  savidge, 

An'  all  my  blood  xer  bile. 
I  fergot  erbout  cote  an'  cullers 

An'  de  case  warn't  none  ob  mine, 
I  uz  back  on  de  ole  plantation, 

An'  a-actin'  on  dat  line. 

"  An'  dat  am  de  reason,  jessly, 
I  couldn't  keep  onder  check, 

But  tuck  him  by  de  slack-ban, 
An'  by  his  scrawny  neck, 


AND  RECITATIONS  No.  21.  Ill 

An'  liffed  him  ober  de  pickets. 

But  dar  I  los'  my  grip. 
An'  dat's  whut  made  him,  I  reckon, 

Hit  de  pabement  so  k'flip. " 

"  That  will  do,"  the  judge  said,  dryly, 

"  Code,  Section  18 — ten — 
Some  fool  put  that  fine,  likely — 

But  you're  discharged,  old  Ben! 
Put  up  that  window  there,  bailiff ; 

It's  too  warm  here  for  me. 
Mr.  Clerk,  say,  'Fined  five  dollars,' 

An'  here's  your  green  old  V.'' 


GETTING  TO  BE  A  MAN. 


3.    E.    KISER. 


I 


Little  John  Henry  Speaks. 
'M  glad  my  hair  ain't  yallow, 


And  all  curled  up  and  long; 
I'm  glad  my  cheeks  ain't  dimpled, 

And  that  I'm  gettin'  strong! 
I  wisht  my  voice  was  hoarser, 

To  talk  like  Uncle  Dan, 
Because  I  want  to  hurry 

An'  git  to  be  a  man ! 

I'm  glad  the  women  never 

Come  up  to  me  and  say : 
"  What  a  purty  little  boy!  " 

In  that  soft  kind  of  way ! 
I  wear  big  shoes,  and  always 

Make  all  the  noise  I  can, 
Because  I  want  to  hurry 

And  git  to  be  a  man ! 


112  WERNERS  READINGS 

Onct  tried  to  chew  terbacker, 

But  couldn't  do  it  quite. 
It  made  me  awful  dizzy — 

They  said  I  was  a  sight. 
But  sometime  when  I'm  older, 

I  bet  you  that  I  can — 
I  won't  give  up  that  easy, 

'Cause  I  want  to  be  a  man! 

I've  got  on  pa's  suspenders — 

Wisht  I  had  whiskers,  too, 
And  that  my  feet  was  bigger 

And  schoolin'  was  all  through! 
Wisht  Edison  or  someone 

Would  come  out  with  a  plan 
To  help  a  boy  to  hurry 

And  git  to  be  a  man. 


LEADING  THE  CHOIR. 


EDITH    M.    NOKRIS. 

THAR'S  be'n  some  trubble  in  the  choir, 
'N'  purty  desprit  feelin' ; 
Thet's  risen  by  times  a  gre't  deal  higher 
'N  orgin-tones  a-pealin'. 

Some  folks  is  kinder  sot,  ye  know, 

On  hevin'  things  their  way  ; 
They  sorter  want  ter  run  ther  show, 

'N'  scoop  in  all  ther  pay. 

Some  o'  this  tribe  bed  med  it  hot, 

'N'  sot  folks'  ears  a-dingin' ; 
They  fit  'n'  sulked  a  mighty  lot, 

But  didn't  help  ther  singin'. 

Ther  come  a  chap  from  Tanker ville, — 
A  sort  o'  okkerd  feller ; 


AND  RECITATIONS  No.  21.  Ii3 

His  hair  wuz  red,  Iris  name  wuz  Bill; 
Bat,  gosh  !   his  voice  was  meller. 

Says  I  to  him,  one  arternoon : 

"Bill  Jones,  ye  better  come 
'N'  join  our  Sabba-evenin'  tune — 

Ye'd  mek  thet  meetin'  hum!" 

But  when  he  see  'em  laff  'n'  sneer, 

He  slouched  'n'  hung  his  head; 
Ter  match  his  hair,  ur  purty  near, 

His  face  grew  fiery  red. 

This  med  ther  gals  'n'  fellers  nudge, 

'Ith  grins  an'  silly  chuckles; 
Bill  redder  got,  but  didn't  budge, 

Jest  stood  'n'  cracked  his  knuckles. 

Says  I  to  him :    "Ef  ye  can't  sing, 

Ye'd  better  dust  'n'  git; 
Fer  'tain't  no  use  ter  try  a  thing, 

Ef  ye  hevn't  got  the  grit." 

The  orgin  started,  then  he  sung. 

His  voice  rose  higher  'n'  higher, 
Till  like  a  silver  bell  it  rung, — 

I  'lowed  he'd  bu'st  ther  spire. 

It  seemed  ter  raise  ther  roof  ermost 

'N'  let  in  all  ther  glory 
Uv  all  ther  shinin'  angel  host, 

'N'  saints,  'n'  prophets  hoary. 

'N'  then  it  sunk  so  soft  'n'  low, 

It  seemed  like  song-birds  trillin' ; 
It  filled  old  eyes  'ith  tears,  ye  know, 

'N'  set  hard  hearts  a-thrillin'. 

'N'  then  he  let  it  out  ag'in, 

'Ith  notes  o'  joy  loud  pealin' ; 
It  liked  ter  bring  the  heavens  in, 

Right  through  ther  dusty  ceil  in'. 


[14  WERNER'S  READINGS 

The  air  wuz  filled  'ith  flats  'n'  sharps 
Er-round  ther  buildin'  flashin', 

'Ith  soun'  er  dulcimers  'n'  harps, 
'.N'  shawms  'n'  cymbals  clashin'. 

'N'  like  a  flock  o'  sheep,  I  vum, 
A-follerin'  the  bell-we'ther, 

Th'  others  arter  his  lead  cum 
A-singin'  all  tergether. 

Fust  soft,  like  angel  voices ;  now 
Like  clarion  notes  a-greetin' ; 

Folks  ain't  fergot  it  jet,  I  vow, 
How  Bill  Jones  sung  in  meetin'. 


THE  WATERMELON  SEASON. 


E.   N.   BALDWIN. 

/^IT  wa'  dar,  Cuff! 
^-*     Don't  yer  neber  git  'nuff? 
Git  wa'  !   dis  my  mellin ; 
Don't  you  hiar  me  tellin'  ? 
Gwine  ter  eat  it  all  alone, 
Watermellins  hab  no  bone! 

'Possum!   Don't  say  datl 
Wouldn't  gib  scat 
For  'possum  just  now. 
An'  watermellin,  anyhow, 
Done  beat  de  'coon, 
Mornin'  or  noon. 

Go  wa'  wid  'possum 
Wen  de  mellin  blossoms; 
Go  wa'  wid  'coon, 
Mornin',  nite  or  noon; 
Go  wa'  wid  tripe 
"When  watermellin's  ripe! 


AND  RECITATIONS  No.  21.  115 

Go  wa'  wid  'backer, 
Take  wa'  de  cracker, 
Go  wa'  wid  apple, 
Take  wa'  de  scrapple. 
Water mellin !    hush — 
Yer  make  de  mellin  blush ! 

When  de  darkness  settle, 
An'  de  skeeter  nettle, 
Marster  gone  to  bed, 
An'  de  pigs  is  fed, 
Slip  down  in  de  patch, 
Gib  de  fruit  a  snatch. 

Tap  'em  on  de  side ! 
Hear  'im  screamin's  wide, 
Plunk!    Plunk!   Plunk! 
Man!  yer  make  me  drunk! 
Pull  de  lids  apart, 
Stab  'im  to  de  hart ! 

Go  wa' ,  nigger !   Go  wa'  dar ! 

Dis  my  mellin!   don't  yer  hiar? 

Go  in  de  rojm,  lock  de  door, 

Frow  yerself  on  de  floor, 

Eat  an'  eat !   Mellin  done  gone ! 

Sleep  sweet  an'  dream  till  early  in  de  morn ! 


THE  STICKIT  MINISTER. 


S.    R.    CROCKETT. 

THE  crows  were  wheeling  behind  the  plow  in  scattering 
clusters,  and  plumping  singly  upon  the  soft,  thick 
grubs  which  the  plowshare  was  turning  out  upon  an  unkindly 
world.  Robert  Fraser  bent  to  the  plow-handles,  and  cast  a 
keen  and  wary  eye  toward  his  guide-posts  on  the  ridge.  His 
face  was  colorless,  even  when  a  dash  of  rain  came  swirling 
across  from  the  crest  of  Ben  Gairn.  He  was  dressed  like 
any  other  plowman  of  the  south  uplands — rough  homespun, 


116  WERNER'S  READINGS 

much  the  worse  for  wear,  and  leggins  the  color  of  the  red 
soil  which  he  was  reversing  with  the  share  of  his  plow.  Yet 
there  was  that  about  Robert  Fraser  which  marked  him  no 
common  man.  When  he  paused  at  the  top  of  the  ascent  and 
stood  with  his  back  against  the  horns  of  the  plow,  he  pushed 
back  his  weather-beaten  straw  hat  with  a  characteristic 
gesture,  and  showed  a  white  forehead  with  blue  veins  chan- 
neling it — a  damp,  heavy  lock  of  black  hair  clinging  to  it  as 
in  Severn's  picture  of  John  Keats  on  his  death-bed.  Robert 
Fraser  saw  a  couple  of  black  specks,  which  moved  smoothly  and 
evenly  along  the  top  of  the  distant  dike  of  the  highway.  He 
stood  still  for  a  moment  or  two  watching  them.  As  they  came 
nearer,  they  resolved  themselves  into  a  smart  young  man  sit- 
ting in  a  well-equipped  gig  drawn  by  a  showily  actioned 
horse  and  driven  by  a  man  in  livery.  As  they  passed  rapid- 
ly along  the  road,  the  hand  of  the  young  man  appeared  in  a 
careless  wave  of  recognition  over  the  stone  dike,  and  Robert 
Fraser  lifted  his  slack  reins  in  staid  acknowledgment.  It  was 
more  than  a  year  since  the  brothers  had  looked  each  other  so 
nearly  in  the  eyes.  They  were  Dr.  Henry  Fraser,  the  rising 
physician  of  Cairn  Edward,  and*  his  elder  brother  Robert, 
once  Student  of  Divinity  at  Edinburgh  College,  whom  three 
parishes  knew  as  "  The  Stickit  Minister." 

When  Robert  Fraser  stabled  his  horses  that  night  and  went 
in  to  his  supper,  he  was  not  surprised  to  find  his  friend, 
Saunders  M'Quhirr,  of  Drumquhat,  sitting  by  the  peat  fire. 
Robert  had  taken  to  Saunders  ever  since — the  back  of  his 
ambition  broken — he  had  settled  down  to  the  farm,  and  he 
welcomed  him  with  shy  cordiality. 

"  I  saw  yer  brither  the  day,"  said  Saunders,  "he  maun  be 
gittin'  a  big  practice." 

'  'Ay  ! ' '  said  Robert  Fraser,  very  thoughtfully. 

Saunders  M'Quhirr  glanced  up  quickly.  It  was,  of  course, 
natural  that  the  unsuccessful  elder  brother  should  envy  the 
prosperous  younger,  but  he  had  thought  that  Robert  Fraser 
was  living  on  a  different  plane.  Everyone  knew  why  Dr. 
Fraser  did  not  visit  his  brother's  little  farm.  "He's  gettin' 
in  wi'  the  big  fowk  noo,  an'  thinks  may   be  that  his  brither 


AND  RECITATIONS  No.  21.  117 

wad  do  him  nae  credit."  That  was  the  way  the  clash  of  the 
country-side  explained  the  matter. 

"I  never  told  you  how  I  came  to  leave  the  college, 
Saunders,"  said  the  younger  man,  resting  his  brow  on  his 
hand.  "I  have  not  tried  to  set  myself  right  with  folks  in 
the  general,  but  I  would  like  to  let  you  see  clearly,  before  I 
go  my  ways  to  Him  who  seeth  from  the  beginning." 

"  Hear  till  him,"  said  Saunders;  "man,  your  cough  is 
no'  near  as  sair  as  it  was  i'  the  back-end.  Ye' 11  be  here  lang 
efter  me ;  but  lang  or  short,  weel  do  ye  ken,  Robert  Fraser, 
that  ye  need  not  to  pit  yersel'  richt  wi'  me.  Hev  I  no 
kenned  ye  sins  ye  war  the  size  o'  twa  scrubbers?  " 

"]|  thank  you,  Saunders,"  said  Robert,  "but  I  am  well 
aware  that  I  am  to  die  this  year.  It's  more  than  seven  year 
now  since  I  first  kenneck  that  my  days  were  to  be  few.  It 
was  the  year  my  faither  died,  and  left  Harry  and  me  by 
our  lane. 

"  He  left  no  sillar  to  speak  of,  just  plenty  to  lay  him  de- 
cently in  the  kirkyard  among  his  forebears.  I  had  been 
troubled  with  my  chest  for  some  time,  and  so  called  one  day 
at  the  infirmary  to  get  a  word  with  Sir  James.  He  was  very 
busy  when  I  went  in,  and  never  noticed  me  till  the  cough 
took  me.  Then  on  a  sudden  he  looked  up  from  his  papers, 
came  quickly  over  to  me,  and  said  :  '  Come  into  my  room, 
laddie.'  Ay,  he  was  a  good  man  and  a  faithful — Sir  James 
— if  ever  there  was  one.  He  told  me  that  with  care  I  might 
live  five  or  six  years,  but  it  would  need  great  care. 

"  I  came  my  ways  home  to  the  Dullarg,  and  night  and  day 
I  considered  what  was  to  be  done,  with  so  much  to  do  and  so 
little  time  to  do  it.  It  was  clear  that  both  Harry  and  me 
could  not  go  through  the  college  on  the  little  my  faither  had  left. 
So  late  one  night  I  saw  my  way  clear  to  what  I  should  do. 
Harry  must  go,  I  must  stay.  I  must  come  home  to  the  farm, 
and  be  my  own  '  man ;  '  then  I  could  send  Harry  to  the 
college  to  be  a  doctor,  for  he  had  no  call  to  the  ministry,  as 
once  I  thought  I  had.  More  than  that,  it  was  laid  on  mo 
to  tell  Jessie  Loudon  that  Robert  Frazer  was  no  better  than 
a  machine  set  to  go  five  years. 


118  WERNERS  READINGS 

"Now  all  these  things  I  did,  Saunders,  but  there's  no  use 
telling  you  what  they  cost  in  the  doing.  I  do  not  repent  any 
of  them.  I  would  do  them  all  over  again  were  they  to  do, 
but  it's  been  bitterer  than  1   thought." 

The  Stickit  Minister  took  his  head  off  his  hand  and  leaned 
wearily  back  in  his  chair. 

' '  The  story  went  over  the  country  that  I  had  failed  in  my 
examinations,  and  I  never  said  that  I  had  not.  I  settled 
down  to  the  farm,  and  I  put  Harry  through  the  college, 
sending  all  but  a  bare  living  to  him  in  Edinburgh.  I  worked 
the  work  of  the  farm,  rain  and  shine,  ever  since,  and  have 
been  for  these  six  years  the  '  Stickit  Minister  '  that  all  the 
world  kens  the  da}'.  Harry  did  not  think  that  he  got 
enough.  He  was  always  writing  for  more,  and  not  so  very 
pleased  when  he  did  not  get  it.  He  was  aye  different  to  me, 
ye  ken,  Saunders,  and  he  canna  be  judged  by  the  same  stand- 
ard as  you  and  me." 

"I  ken,"  said  Saunders  M'Quhirr,  a  spark  of  light  lying 
in  the  quiet  of  his  eyes. 

"Well,"  continued  Robert  Fraser,  lightened  by  Saunders's 
apparent  agreement,  "  the  time  came  when  he  was  clear  from 
college,  and  wanted  a  practice.  He  had  been  ill-advised  that 
he  had  not  got  his  share  of  the  farm,  and  he  wanted  it  selled 
to  share  and  share  alike.  Now  I  kenned,  and  you  ken, 
Saunders,  that  it's  no'  worth  much  in  one  share,  let  alone 
two.  So  I  got  the  place  quietly  bonded,  and  bought  him 
old  Doctor  Aitkin's  practice  in  Cairn  Edward  with  the 
money. 

"  I  have  tried  to  do  my  best  for  the  lad,  for  it  was  laid  on 
me  to  be  my  brother's  keeper.  He  doesna  come  here  much," 
continued  liobert,  "  but  I  think  he's  not  so  ill  against  me  as 
he  was.  Saunders,  he  waved  his  hand  to  me  when  he  was 
gaun  by  the  day  ! ' ' 

"That  was  kind  of  him,"  said  Saunders  M'Quhirr. 

"Ay,  was  it  no',"  said  the  Stickit  Minister,  eagerly,  with 
a  soft  look  in  his  eyes  as  he  glanced  up  at  his  brother's  por- 
trait in  cap  and  gown,  which  hung  over  the  china  dogs  on 
the  mantelpiece. 


AND  RECITATIONS  No.  21.  119 

"I  got  my  notice  this  morning  that  the  bond  is  to  be 
called  up  in  November,"  said  Robert.  "  So  I'll  be  obliged 
to  flit.'' 

Saunders   M'Qahirr    started     to    his    feet    in    a    moment. 

"  Never,"  he  said,  with  the  spark  of  fire  alive  now  in  his 
eyes,  "never  as  lang  as  there's  a  beast  on  Drumquhat,  or  a 
ponn'  in  Cairn  Edward  Bank,"  bringing  down  his  clenched 
fist  upon  the  table. 

"  No,  Saunders,  no,"  said  the  Stickit  Minister,  very 
gently;  "I  thank  you  kindly,  but  .PU  he  flitted  before 
that)  " 


THE  AVERAGE  BOY. 


PAULINE    PHELPS. 

TIIEY  can  talk   about  the  country,   n'  how  it's  so  good 
for  boys, 
'N'  takin'  care  of  pigs  'n'  chickens,  'n'  all  the  other  joys. 
They   can   talk   about  their  skatin',  'n'   their  coastin'   'cross 

the .  lot, 
'N'  the  lishin'  in  the  summer  when  the  sun  is  blazin'  hot, 
'N'  the  driviu'  cows  to  pastur',  'n'  the  gittin'  in  the  hay, 
'N'    the    fun    of    stealin'    melons    when   daylight   has   passed 

away. 
But  the  thing  I  want  to  say  is, — V  I've  tried  it  so's  I  know — 
There    ain't    none   of    that    stuff    in   it   with    a   good    smart 

vaud'ville  show. 

The  old  op'ra-house  is  crowded  from  the  foot  clear  to  the 
brim, 

But  thegal'ries  they  is  fullest,  'n'  that's  where  we  boys  are  in. 

'N'  there's  quarts  'n'  quarts  of  peanuts,  'n'  candy,  'n'  pep- 
sin gum, 

!N'  no  one  to  watch  us  eatin',  or  to  stop  us  havin'  fun. 

By  'n'  by  you  see  the  curt'in  rollin'  upwards  on  the  string, 

'N'  there's  lots  of  minstrel  folks  a-sittin'  round  a  ring. 

'N'  when  they  all  begin  to  play,  the  music  that  comes  out — - 

It  beats  them  Sousa  concerts  they  tell  so  much  about. 


120  WERNERS  READING! 

Pink-a-jpank!     Pink-a-pcmk-pank!     Clickety-clickety- 

click! 
The  banjo  and  the  bones,  they're  the  things  that  do  the 

trick. 
While  the  end  man   stands  there,  grinnin'  V  a-turnin' 

in  his  toes 
'N'  a-stretchin'  of  his  mouth  out  V  wrinklin'  up  his  nose, 
'N'  a-puttin'  in  the  breakdowns  at  the  end. 

There's  a  young  chap  that  sings  soprano,  so  sad  you  want  to 

cry, 

'N'  the  clown  he  gits  us  laughin'  till  it  seems  as  if  we'd  die. 
There's  double  livin'  pyramids,  V  a  man  that  knots  his  legs, 
'N'  a  boy  that  swings  on  nothin',  'n'  then  hangs  there  by  two 

pegs. 
But  you  bet  your  life  the  minstrels  are  the  best  thing  in  the 

show, 
For  the   end  man  he's  a  corker,    'n'  he   makes  the   whole 

thing  go. 
His  feet  they  look  as  if  they'd  grown  for  about  a  hundred  years, 
'1ST'  his   mouth  it    stretches    out  so   wide  it  sort  of  crowds 

his  ears. 

Says  the  leader — all  rigged  up  in  a  girl's  dress  made  of  red — - 
"Bones,"  says  he,  "I've  got  a  riddle  that  will  make  you 

scratch  your  head. 
"Tell  me  why  the  cops  last  summer  spent  so  much  time  in 

the  park?" 
"Tell  you  why  de  cops  last  summer  spent  so  much  time  in 

de  park  ?  ' ' 
"  Hurry  up  'n'  find  an  answer.      Can't  afford  to  wait  all  day." 
Then  all  we  boys  are  still  as  mice  just  to  hear  what  Bones 

will  say. 
Bet  your  life  he's  got  it  ready  ;   doesn't  have  to  stop  'n'  think. 
He  yells :    "To  keep  de  sons  from  scorchin',"  'n'  gives  his 

eye  a  wink. 

Pink-a-jpank!    Pink-a-pank-pank!      OUckety-clickety- 
click! 


AND  RECITATIONS  No.  21.  121 

The  banjo  'n'  the  bones,  playin'  loud  'n'  playin'  quick, 
While  the  end  man  stands  there,  grinnin'  'n'  a-turnin'  in 

his  toes 
'W  a-stretchin'  of  his  mouth  out  'n'  wrinklin'  up  his  nose, 
'K'  a-puttin'  in  the  breakdowns  at  the  end. 

We  laugh  the  most  all  through  the  show,  V  we  clap  the 

loudest,  too, 
'N'    when    they    won't  do  things  over  we  'bout  stamp  the 

gal'ries  through. 
The  Irish  team's  a  daisy,  V  the  bike-rider's  out  of  sight, 
'N'  the  giants  'n'  the  little  Japs,  'n'  skirt- dancers, — they're 

all  right ; 
But  the  end  man  he's  the  best  one,  'n'  that's  who  I  guess 

I'll  be, 
For  I  can  put  on  the  blackness,  V  the  kinky  wig,  you  see. 
My  mouth  ought  to  stretch  by  usin';  'n'  I  guess  my  feet'll 

grow, 
'N'  my  nose'll  flatten  down  some  if  I  box  enough,  you  know. 

I  don't  say  much  about  it  yet,  for  I  want  to  s'prise  the  folks, 
But  I'm  practicin'  the  dancin'  'n'  I'm  leamin'  all  the  jokes; 
'JST    when    I've    grown    a    little    more,    'n'    my    mouth    has 

stretched  out  so  [pantomime], 
I'll  give  up  school  for  good  'n'  all,  'n'  go  join  the  minstrel 

show. 
'N'  the  boys  I  used  to  play  with  will  all  miss  me  on  the  lawn, 
'N'  they'll  wonder  when   I'm  comin'  back,  V  where  it   is 

I've  gone; 
But  they  won't  find  out  about  it  till  there  conies  a  holiday, 
'N'  they  go  to  see  the  vaud'ville,  'n'  the  music  starts  to  play, 

Pink-a-pank!     Pink-a-pank-pank!     CUckety-clickety- 

clickf 
The  banjo  'n'  the  bones — I'm  a-gittin'  it  down  slick! 
'N'  there'll  be  me  a-grinnin'  'n'  a-turnin'  in  my  toes 
'W    a-stretchin'    of    my    mouth    out   'n'    wrinklin'   up 

my  nose, 
'W  a-puttin'  in  the  breakdowns  at  the  end. 


122  WERNER'S  READINGS 


MASS'  CRAWFORD,  ISAM,  AND  THE  DEER. 


HARRY    STILLWELL    EDWARDS. 


[Arranged  by  Mrs.  Kate  Weaver-Dallas  from  "Two  Runaways,"  by  permission 
of  the  Century  Co.  and  the  author.] 

MANY  years  ago  there  lived  in  Georgia  an  eccentric 
bachelor  planter,  known  by  the  name  of  Major 
Crawford  Worthington.  He  was  the  owner  of  a  number  of 
slaves;  one  of  them  named  Isam  had  been  his  companion 
from  childhood — imfact,  they  had  grown  up  together.  Isam 
had  an  annual  runaway  freak,  which  lasted  about  a  fortnight, 
and  troubled  the  Major  exceedingly, — not  that  he  cared  an 
iota  for  the  loss  of  time,  but  it  galled  exceedingly  that  there 
was  anything  in  connection  with  a  negro  that  he  coul.l  not 
fathom.  At  last  the  Major  hit  upon  a  plan  to  solve  the  mys- 
tery, and  threatened  Isam  with  dire  punishment  if  he  should 
go  off  another  time  without  letting  him  know.  The  threat 
had  the  desired  effect.  The  Major  was  duly  informed, 
whereupon  he  signified  to  the  negro  his  intention  of  accom- 
panying him  upon  his  expedition,  and  the  two  runaways 
started  together.  For  nearly  two  weeks  they, lived  in  the 
woods, — hunting,  fishing,  foraging,  and  both  enjoying  them- 
selves hughly.  One  day  they  had  been  out  foraging  for  din- 
ner, and  were  returning  to  camp,  both  heavily  laden.  The 
Major  bore  a  sack  of  corn,  and  Isam  led  the  way  with  three 
watermelons.  The  two  had  just  reached  the  edge  of  the 
cane-brake,  beyond  which  lay  the  camp,  and  were  entering 
the  narrow  path,  when  a  magnificent  buck  came  sweeping 
through,  and  collided  with  Isam  witli  snch  force  and  sudden- 
ness as  to  crush  and  spatter  his  watermelons  into  a  pitiful 
ruin,  and  throw  the  negro  violently  to  the  ground.  Instantly 
the  frightened  man  seized  the  threatening  antlers,  and  held 
on,  yelling  lustily  for  help.  The  deer  made  several  ineffec- 
tual efforts  to  free  himself,  but,  finding  escape  impossible, 
turned  fiercely  upon  his  unwilling  captor,  and  tried  to  drive 
the  terrible  horns  through  his  writhing  body. 


AND  RECITATIONS  No.  SI.  123 

"O  Lord!  O  Lord!"  screamed  Isam.  "O  Lord, 
Mass'  Craffud,  cum  help  me  tu'n  dis  buck  loos'." 

The  laugh  died  away  from  Major  Worthington's  lips. 
None  knew  better  than  he  the  danger  into  which  Isam  had 
plunged.  .Not  a  stick,  brush,  stone,  or  weapon  of  any  de- 
scription was  at  hand,  except  his  small  pocket-knife.  Hastily 
opening  that,  he  rushed  upon  the  deer.  Isam's  eyes  were 
bursting  from  their  sockets,  and  appealed  piteously  for  the 
help  his  stentorian  voice  was  frantically  imploring  until  the 
woods  rang  with  his  agony.  Major  Worthington  caught  the 
nearest  antler  with  his  left  hand,  and  made  a  fierce  lunge  at' 
the  animal1  s  throat.  But  the  knife's  point  was  missing,  and 
only  a  trifling  wound  was  inflicted.  The  next  instant  the 
deer  met  the  new  attack  with  a  rush  that  carried  Isam  with 
it,  and  thrust  the  Major  to  the  ground,  the  knife  falling  out 
of  reach.  Seeing  this,  the  negro  let  go  his  hold,  rolled  out 
of  the  way,  and  with  a  mighty  effort  literally  ran  upon  the 
top  of  a  branching  haw-bush,  where  he  lay  spread  out  like  a 
bat  and  moaning  piteously. 

"  Stick  ter  'im,  Mass'  Craffud,  stick  ter  'im  !  Wo'  deer! 
wo'  deer!    Stick  ter  'im,  Mass'  Craffud!  " 

And  the  Major  stuck.  Retaining  his  presence  of  mind, 
he  threw  his  left  arm  over  the  deer's  neck,  and,  still  holding 
with  his  right  the  antler,  looked  about  for  Isam,  who  had  so 
mysteriously  disappeared. 

"  Stick  ter  'im,  Mass'  Craffud,  stick  ter  'im  !  Hit's  bet- 
ter fur  one  ter  die  den  bof e !  Hole  'im,  Mass'  Craffud,  hole 
'im !  Wo'  deer!  wo  deer!  Stick  ter  'im,  Mass'  Craffud ! 
Steddy  !  Look  out  fur  es  ho'n!  "Wo'  deer!  Steddy,  Mass' 
Craffud!" 

By  this  time  the  struggles  of  the  beast  had  again  ceased, 
and,  wearied  from  his  double  encounter,  ho  stood  with  his 
head  pulled  down  to  the  ground,  half  astride  the  desperate 
man,  who  was  holding  on  for  life.  Whether  Major  Worth- 
ington  was  frightened  or  not  is  hard  to  say, — probably  he 
was;  but  there  was  no  doubt  about  his  being  angry,  when  he 
saw  Isam  spread  out  in  the  haw-bush,  and  heard  his  address. 
As  soon  as  he  caught  his  breath,  he  burst  forth  with : 


124  WERNER'S  READINGS 

"  You  infernal  black  rascal!  "Why  don't  you  come — down 
out  of  that — bush  and  help — me!  " 

Isam's  face  was  pitiful  in  its  expression.  His  teeth  chat- 
tered, and  he  fairly  shook  the  bush  with  his  trembling. 

"  Don',  Mass'  Craffud,  don'  !  You  ain'  got  no  time  ter 
cuss  now.  Lif  up  yo'  voice  en  pray'!  Lord!  Lord!  ef 
ev'r  er  man  had  er  call  ter  pray,  you  dun  got  it  now." 

"If  ever — I  get  loose  from  this — brute, — you  infernal 
scoundrel, — I'll  not  leave  a — wholebone  in  your  body!  " 

"  Don' say  dat,  Mass'  Craft'ud,  don'!  You  mustn't  let 
de  sun  go  down  on  yo'  wraf!  O  Lord!  don'  you  mine 
nuthin'  he  es  er-sayin'  now,  cos  he  ain'  'spons'bl'.  Lord,  ef 
de  bes'  aingil  you  got  wuz  down  dere  in  his  fix,  en  er  fool 
deer  wuz  er  straddl'n'  'im,  dey  ain'  no  tell'n'  w'at  'u'd 
happ'n,  er  w'at  sorter  langwidge  he'd  let  loos'.  Wo'  deer! 
wo'  deer!  Stick  ter  'iin,  Mass'  Craffud!  Stick  ter  'im ! 
Steddy  deer!     Steddy,  Mass'  Craffud!  " 

Again  the  deer  commenced  to  struggle.  By  this  time  his 
breath  was  almost  gone,  and  his  anger  had  given  way  to  un- 
mistakable apprehension.  He  realized  that  he  was  in  a  most 
desperate  plight,  and  that  the  only  hope  of  rescue  lay  in  the 
frightened  negro  up  in  the  haw-bush.  He  changed  his  tactics 
when  the  deer  rested  again. 

"Isam,"  he  said  gently. 

"  Yes,  honey." 

"  Isam,  come  and  help  me,  old  fellow." 

"Good  gracious,  Mass'  Craffud,"  said  the  negro,  earnest- 
ly, "dere  ain'  nuthin'  I  wouldn'  do  fur  you,  but  hit's  better 
fur  one  ter  die'n  two.      Hit's  a  long  sight  better." 

"But  there  is  no  danger,  Isam;  none  whatever.  Just  you 
come  down  and  with  your  knife  hamstring  the  brute.  I'll 
hold  him. ' ' 

"No,  sah !  no,  sah !  "  said  Isam,  loudly  and  with  grow- 
ing earnestness.  "No,  sah!  it  won'  wuk.  No,  sah!  Dere 
ain'  nuthin'  kin  save  you  but  de  good  Lord,  en'  he  ain'  go'n' 
ter,  less'n  you  ax  'Im,  'umble-like  en  er-b'liev'n'  in  'Es 
mussy,  I  prayed  w'en  I  wuz  down  dere,  Mass'  Craffud,  dat 
I  did,  en  look   w'at   happ'n.     Didn'    He   sen'    you  like  er 


AND  RECITATIONS  No.  21.  125 

aingil,  en  didn'  He  git  me  up  hyah  safe  en  wholesum?  Dat 
He  did,  en  He  never  'spec'  dis  nigg'r  war  go'n'  ter  fling 
'esse'f  und'r  dat  deer  arter  He  trouble  Hisse'f  to  show  'im 
up  hyah.  Stick  ter  him,  Mass'  Cralfud,  stick  ter  'im.  Wo' 
deer!  wo'  deer!  Look  out  fur  es  ho'n !  Stick  ter  'im, 
Mass'  Craffud.      Dere  now — t'ank  de  Lord!" 

Again  the  Major  got  a  breathing-spell.  The  deer  in  his 
struggles  had  gotten  under  the  haw-bush,  and  the  Major  re- 
sumed his  earnest  supplications. 

"  Isam,  if  you  will  get  down — and  cut  this  brute's  legs, — 
I  will  give  you  your  freedom." 

Isam's  only  answer  was  a  groan. 

"  And  fifty  acres  of  land." 

Again  that  pitiful  groan. 

"And — a  mule  and  a — year's  rations." 

The  Major  paused  from  force  of  circumstances.  After  a 
while  the  answer  came : 

"Mass'  Craffud,  you  knuw  dis  nigg'r  b'en  hard-work'n' 
en  hones',  en  look  after  you  en  yo'n  all  es  life." 

"Yes,  Isam,"  said  the  Major,  "you  have  been — a  faith- 
ful, honest — nigger.'' 

There  was  another  pause.  Perhaps  this  was  too  much  for 
Isam,  but  he  continued  after  a  little  while: 

"  Well,  let  me  tell  you,  honey,  dere  ain'  nuthin'  you  got 
er  kin  git  w'at'll  tern'  dis  nigg'r  ter  git  down  dere.  W'y," 
and  his  voice  assumed  a  most  earnest  and  argumentative  tone, 
"  deed'n'  hit  Vd  be  'sultin'  de  Lord.  Ain'  He  dim  got  me 
up  hyah  out'n  de  way,  en  don't  He  'spec'  me  fur  ter  stay? 
You  reck'n  He  got  nuthin'  't  all  ter  do  but  keep  puttin'  Isam 
back  up  cr  tree?  No,  sail!  He  dun  ten'  ter  me,  en  ef  you 
got  any  difficulty  down  there,  you  en  de  deer  kin  fight  it  out. 
Hit's  my  buzness  des  ter  keep  er-prayin'.  Wo'  deer !  wo' 
deer!      Steddy,  Mass' Craffud.     Dere  now- — t'ank  de  Lord!  " 

Again  the  Major  defeated  the  beast's  struggles,  and  there 
came  a  truce.  JBut  the  man  was  well-nigh  exhausted,  and 
saw  that  unless  something  Mrere  done  in  his  behalf  he  must 
soon  yield  up  the  fight.  Then  there  came  to  his  assistance 
his  fine  knowledge  of  the  neoro  character. 


126  WERNERS  READINGS 

"  Isam,"  he  said,  slowly  and  impressively. 

But  Isam  was  praying.  The  Major  could  hardly  trust  his 
ears  when  he  heard  the  words : 

"But,  Lord,  don'  let  'im  peer'sh  'fo'  yo'  eyes.  He's  b'en 
er  had  man.  He  cuss  en  sware,  en  play  keerds,  en  bet  on 
horse-race,  'n'  drink  whiskey — " 

"Isam—" 

"  En  he  steal — goodness,  he  tek  ter  stealin'  like  er  duck 
tor  water, — roast'n'  yers,  watermilluns,  chick'n — nuthin'  too 
bad  fur  'im — " 

"Isam!  " 

The  word  came  upward  in  tones  of  thunder.  Even  Isam 
was  obliged  to  regard  it. 

"  Yessir." 

"  Isam,  I  am  going  to  die." 

Isam  gave  a  yell  that  ought  to  have  been  heard  a  mile  away. 

"Oli,  don'  let  'im  die!  Skeer  'im,  skeer  'im,  Lord;  but 
don*  let  'im  die  !  " 

"  Yes,"  continued  the  Major,  "  I  am  going  to  die;  but  let 
me  tell  you  something,  Isam.  I  have  been  looking  into  this 
beast's  eyes  until  I  recognize  him.  You  remember  Dr.  Sam, 
who  died  last  year?  Well,  this  is  Dr.  Sam,  and  he  and  I  will 
never  give  you  another  hour  of  peace  as  long  as  you  live — " 

The  sentence  was  never  finished.  With  a  shriek  that  was 
blood-curdling  in  its  intensity  of  fear  and  horror,  the  negro 
came  crashing  down  through  the  bush  with  his  hands  full  of 
leaves,  straight  upon  the  deer.  The  frightened  animal  made 
one  desperate  plunge,  taking  the  startled  Major  by  surprise, 
and  the  next  instant  found  himself  free.  He  did  not  remain 
upon  the  scene,  or  he  would  have  beheld  the  terrified  negro 
get  upon  his  feet,  run  round  in  a  frenzy  of  terror,  and  close 
his  last  circle  at  the  foot  of  the  bush,  up  which  he  scurried 
again  like  a  squirrel,  old  as  he  was.  The  Major  lay  flat  upon 
his  back,  after  trying  in  vain  to  rise.  Then  the  reaction 
came.  He  fixed  his  eye  upon  the  negro  above  and  laughed 
until  the  tears  washed  the  dirt  from  his  face;  and  Isam, 
holding  his  head  up  so  that  his  vision  could  encompass  the 
narrow  horizon,  said  slowly  and  impressively: 


AND  RECITATIONS  No.  21.  127 

5 


"Mass'  Craffud,  ef  de  Lord  liadn'  'sisted  on  Isam  cum'n 
down  ter  run  dat  deer  off,  'spec'  by  dis  time  you'd  been  er- 
noppin'  yo'  wings  up  yander,  er  else  sputV  on  er  grindi'on 
down  yander." 

And  from  his  elevated  perch  Isam  indicated  the   two    ex- 
tremes of  eternity  with  an  eloquent  sweep  of  his  hand. 


CALLER  HERRIN'. 


[To  be  given  in  fisherwoman  costume,  with  basket  on  arm.  ] 

WHA'LL  buy  caller  herrin'  ? 
They're  bonny  fish  and  halesome  farin. 
Wha'll  buy,  caller  herrin', 
ISTaw  drawn  f  rae  the  Firth  ? 
When  ye  ware  sleepin'  in  your  pillows, 
Dreamed  ye  anght  of  our  fine  fellows, 
Darklin'  as  they  faced  the  billows, 
A'  to  fill  the  woven  willows? 
"Wha'll  buy  my  caller  herrin'? 
Ye  little  ken  their  worth. 
O  ye  may  ca'  them  vulgar  farin' ; 
Wives  and  mithers  maist  despairin', 
Ca'  them  lives  o'  men. 


—4 — *-- #? #-t j3 d * 3 — #— 


Wha'll      buy       cull     -    er        her      -      riii'  ?  They're 


-P\ — 


-9. 

bon    -     ny  fish  and        ha     -     le     -    some      farin', 


Wha'll   buy  call  -  er    her    -  rin'  ?     Naw     drawn  frae  the  Firth. 


128  WERNERS  READINGS 

THAT  FIRE  AT  THE  NOLANS'. 


IT  would  have  been  evident  to  even  the  most  careless  md 
unobservant  passerby  that  something  had  happened  at 
the  Nolans'.  Not  that  there  was  anything  the  matter  with 
the  house,  for  it  bore  no  trace  of  disaster;  but  there  were 
many  signs  which  in  Shantytown  betoken  either  a  fight,  a  fu- 
neral or  a  fire.  The  Nolan  mansion  was  the  only  building 
within  six  blocks  that  was  built  on  the  level  of  the  street;  it 
was,  moreover,  constructed  of  brick,  and  three  stories  high  ; 
decorated  paper  shades  adorned  its  windows,  and  its  door  was 
emblazoned  with  a  silver  plate  on  which  were  the  words, 
"Terrence  O'C.  Nolan." 

On  the  particular  morning  in  question,  all  the  occupants  of 
the  surrounding  whitewashed,  patched  and  propped-up 
shanties  were  gathered  or.  the  sidewalk  in  front  of  it.  From 
the  centre  window  in  the  second  story,  Thomas-a-Becket 
Nolan,  aged  four  years,  with  his  nose  flattened  against  the 
glass,  peered  down  at  the  excited  groups  below.  Now  and 
then  he  would  breathe  on  the  pane,  and  then  draw  strange 
characters  over  its  misty  surface  with  his  small  finger,  he 
was  the  unconscious  object  of  many  remarks. 

Old  Mrs.  Murphy,  the  centre  of  an  interested  knot  of 
neighbors,  was  listened  to  with  great  respect  because  she  had 
just  come  from  within  thehouse.  Michael  Coogan,  presuming 
on  the  fact  that  he  had  married  a  sister  of  Dennis  O'Con- 
nor, who  was  Mrs.  Nolan's  great-uncle,  ascended  the  steps, 
and  rang  the  bell. 

"  Stip  in,  Mr.  Coogan,"  said  Mrs.  Nolan.  "  Good  marn- 
in'  to  ye.  I  suppose  it's  askin'  afther  Tirry  ye  are,  an'  the 
foire.  Jist  walk  this  way  an'  contemplate  the  destroction. 
The  debrw-  ain't  so  much  as  removed  from  the  fiure,"  she 
explained,  as  she  held  open  the  parlor  door  and  allowed  Mr. 
Coogan  to  survey  the  wreck  inside  the  room. 

Everything  in  the  apartment  was  broken,  and  soaked  with 
water;  but.  strangely  enough,  there  were  no  stains  of  smoke 


AND  RECITATIONS  No.  SI.  129 

or  any  other  trace  of  fire  to  be  seen.  Pictures  and  orna- 
ments were  all  completely  demolished,  and  broken  glass  cov- 
ered everything. 

"  Ho wly  saints !  "  ejaculated  Mr.  Coogan,  "  phat  an  ix- 
pinsive  catastrophe,  Mrs.  Nolan  !  It's  a  tirrible  demonstra- 
tion yez  must  have  had. '' 

"Ay,  that  it  wuz!"  she  replied,  sinking  into  a  damp  and 
mutilated  rocking-chair.  "  Ter  think  of  that  bee-utiful  Ax- 
minister  carpet,  an'  those  impoorted  Daggystan  roogs,  an' 
our  new  Frinch  mantel  clock  that  had  the  goldfish  globe  over 
it — all  soppin'  wet,  an'  smashed  to  smithereens.  It  'u'd  be  a 
tremingious  calamity  for  anybody.'' 

"  Tremingious !"  echoed  Mr.  Coogan,  in  an  awe-struck 
tone,  "  that  it  w'u'd.  An'  how  did  the  occurince  evintuate, 
Mrs.    Nolan?" 

"  It  wuz  all  along  av  the  new  domestic  an'  those  divilish 
greeners,"  began  Mrs.  Nolan,  in  a  somewhat  agitated  man- 
ner, shaking  her  head  sadly.  "  Lasht  wake,  Katy,  our  ould 
gnrrl  that  had  been  wid  us  fer  noine  years,  married  a  long- 
shoreman, an'  so  I  ingaged  a  domestic  be  the  name  av  Mary 
Ann  Reilly.  She  had  lost  two  fingers  aff  av  her  lift  hand,  but 
she  wuz  will  ricomminded,  an'  so  I  took  her  at  onct.  Tirry 
didn't  loike  the  looks  av  her  at  all,  at  all.  '  Bridget,'  sezhe, 
1  her  eyes  are  not  sthraight, '  sez  he.  '  I  don't  like  googgle- 
eyed  paple  in  the  house,'  sez  he.  '  Look  out,  or  she'll  be 
afther  lookin'  at  ye  or  Tummy,  an'  bewitchin'  ye  wid  her 
ayvil  eye,'  sez  he.  But  wud  ye  belave  me,  Mr.  Coogan,  she 
only  looked  crucked  whin  she  wuz  narvous  or  excoited,  an' 
ginerally  her  eyees  wuz  as  sthraight  as  yer  own  in  yer  hid. 
She  hadn't  bin  in  the  house  over  two  days,  do  }^e  moind, 
when  I  dropped  the  flat-oiron  on  me  fut,  scalded  me  hand, 
an'  broke  two  chiney  dishes  in  wan  mornin',  an'  that  same 
day  Tummy  got  inter  the  kitchen  an'  eat  up  three  pounds  of 
raishons,  an'  wuz  shriekin'  wid  epleptic  cowulsions  all 
noight;  so  I  began  to  put  some  faith  in  her  bewitchment 
mesilf . ' ' 

"  Roight  for  ye,"  said  Mr.  Coogan,  nodding^  approvingly 
at  Mrs.  Nolan.      "  That  wuz  bad  loock  enough,  so  it   was." 


130  WERNERS  READINGS 

"  Will,  that  wuz  only  the  beginnin',"  continued  Mrs. 
Nolan.  "  The  nixt  tiling  wnz  yisterday  niornin'  whin  Tirry 
cum  home  wid  a  baskitful  uv  little,  round,  green  bottles. 
i  Phat's  thim?  '  sez  I.  'Is  it  Christmas-tree  toys,  or  is  it 
patent  midicine?  ' — Naythur,'  sez  Tirry  ;  '  it  is  a  family  foire 
department,'  sez  he.  'Since  we  has  no  tilegraft  in  the 
house,'  sez  he,  'an'  insoorance  is  so  expinsible,  I've  been 
afther  buyin'  some  ban'  greenades  to  put  out  foires  wid.' 
'  Is  it  limonade  is  in  'em,  did  ye  say?  '  sez  I.  '  No,'  sez  he, 
4  They're  greenades,  Bridget.  The  bottles  is  green,  an'  they 
aid  ye  ter  put  out  a  foire,'  sez  he.  So  Tirry  hung  up  wan 
dozen  bottles  in  the  parlor  near  the  dure  (where  that  woire 
rack  is,  Mr.  Coogan),  an'  instroocted  Mary  Ann  how  to  ix- 
tinguish  foires  wid  thim,  by  throwin'  thim  at  the  flames." 

44  Is  it  baseball  that  it  is?  "  inquired  Mr.  Coogan. 

44  No,  loike  stonin' goats  more,"  said  Mrs.  Nolan,  and 
then  she  resumed  her  narrative.  "  Lasht  avenin'  the  lamp 
wuz  lit  on  the  table,  Tummy  wuz  playin'  by  the  winder,  an' 
me  husband  wuz  takin'  his  convanience  in  his  arrum- chair, 
wid  his  back  to  the  dure,  /wuz  sittin'  near  the  table  a- readin' 
the  mornin'  JTurruld,  an'  Tummy  all  av  a  suddent  lit  the 
winder-shade  run  up  near  the  top.  '  Mudder,'  sez  he,  '  the 
b'yes  have  made  a  big  bon -foire  in  the  lot  opposite,'  sez  he. 
An'  from  where  I  sat  I  could  see  the  reflixion  av  a  blazin' 
tar-barrel  in  the  loockin'- glass  over  the  mantelpace.  Jist 
thin,  the  dure  opened  behind  me,  an'  Mary  Ann  come  in. 
She  saw  the  reflixion,  too,  an'  yelled  '  Foire!'  loike  bloody 
murder.  I  turns  round  to  look  at  her,  an'  she  wuz  trimbiin' 
wid  excoitemint,  an'  as  goggle-eyed  as  a  crab.  '  Foire !  ' 
yells  she,  an'  wid  that  she  grabs  a  bottle  av  greenade,  an'  lets 
it  fly.  Smash  !  goes  the  bottle,  an'  doon  come  our  twinty- 
dollar  ingravin'  av  St.  Patrick  drivin'  the  shnakes  out  av  Ire- 
land. Crash!  goes  another,  an'  over  comes  the  clock. 
4  Hullup  !  '  shouts  Tirry,  an'  got  out  a v  his  chair,  but  whang, 
wan  av  the  greeners  hits  him  in  the  hid  an'  bu'sts  all  over 
him.  "Wid  that  he  falls  spachless  on  the  flure,  an'  I  thought 
le  wuz  kilt  entoirely.  Tummy  crawled  under  the  sofa,  an' 
I  scrouched  doon  behind  the  table.    All  this  toime  that  cross- 


AND  RECITATIONS  No.  21.  131 

eyed  Mary  Ann  wuz  schreechin'  i Foire  !  foire  ! "  an'  ploggin' 
bottles  av  greenade  around  the  room.  Bang  !  v/an  hits  the 
vase  full  av  wax  fruit,  that  Tirry  got  at  the  fair.  Slam  ! 
another  puts  out  the  loight,  an'  clears  the  lamp  ofE  the  table, 
and  she  foired  the  rist  av  the  dozen  bottles  roight  an'  lift, 
whang  !  smash  !  round  in  the  dark.  The  glass  wuz  crashin', 
an'  the  greenade  stoof  was  splatterin'  an'  splashin'  an'  trick- 
lin'  all  over  the  wall  an'  furnitoor." 

"Mother  o'  Moses!"  interrupted  Mr.  Coogan.  "  It's 
bushels  o'  glass  there  is  iverywhere.  How  did  it  ind,  Mrs. 
Nolan?" 

■  -■  The  b'yes  over  in  the  lot  heard  the  scraychin'  an'  crash- 
in',  an'  they  smothered  their  foire,  an'  come  an'  bu'st  in  the 
front  dure,  ter  see  the  foight  they  thought  it  wuz.  Tirry  is 
in  bid,  wid  a  poultice  on  his  hid;  an'  Mary  Ann  is  a-sittin' 
in  the  kitchen,  p'aceable  as  a  lamb,  lookin'  at  the  ind  av  her 
nose  fer  occypation.  She  can  pack  up  an'  lave  this  viry  day. 
As  fer  that  young  sphalpeen  av  a  Tummy,  he  ought  ter  be 
licked  fer  littin'  up  the  winder-shade.  Take  my  advoice, 
Mr.  Coogan,  an'  trust  to  the  foiremin  or  an  ould-fashioned 
pail  av  water,  an'  don't  be  afther  buyin'  flasks  av  cologny- 
perfume  to  put  out  foires  wid.'' 


ACCOUNT  OF  A  NEGRO  SERMON. 


JOHJST    B.     GOUGH. 


SOMEONE  has  said,  and  I  think  it  was  Mr.  Moody:  "I 
had  rather  have  zeal  without  knowledge  than  knowl- 
edge without  zeal."  Now,  when  a  man  becomes  a  Christian 
and  is  zealous,  even  without  education,  I  have  heard  some  of 
the  most  wonderful  speeches  that  were  ever  delivered.  I 
heard  a  man  who  was  called  a  plantation  negro,  many  years 
ago,  who  could  not  read,  who  could  not  write,  who  did  not 
know  his  letters,  but  had  considerable,  knowledge  of  the 
Scriptures.  I  heard  from  him  a  sermon  that  I  shall  never 
forget,  never. 

He  said:    "  Bredren,  I'se  gwine  to  take  two  texes.     The 


132  WERNER'S  READINGS 

first  of  these  texes  am  '  Glad  tidings  of  great  joy  which  am 
to  be  to  all  people;'  and  tuder  text  is  '  Hallelujah. '  Now, 
bre.clr.en,  what  am  glad  tidings  of  great  joy?  There  is  a  king 
going  through  the  streets  in  his  chariot,  and  six  calico  horses, 
like  what  they  have  in  the  circus,  prancing  along  through 
the  street.  There  sits  the  king  in  his  chariot.  Nobody 
touches  the  king;  nobody  speaks  to  the  king.  He  sits  in  his 
chariot,  and  the  soldiers  say:  'Hurrah  for  the  king!'  No- 
body touches  the  king.  And  there  is  a  nigger  boy  standing 
on  the  corner  of  the  street,  and  he  is  as  ragged  and  dirty,  and 
his  hair  sticking  out  of  the  holes  in  his  cap  and  his  toes  out 
of  his  shoes,  looking  at  the  procession.  Nobody  care  for 
him.  He  hain't  got  no  father,  nor  no  mother,  and  no  aun- 
tie. Nobody  care  for  him,  all  ragged  and  dirty.  The  king 
see  the  boy,  so  he  says  to  one  of  his  officers  :  '  Bring  dat  boy 
tome.'  But  de  officer  didn't  want  to  fetch  a  nigger.  So 
he  says:  'That  boy  is  all  dirt.'  Then  the  king,  he  says: 
'  Bring  de  boy  to  me !  '  He  got  mad,  yon  see.  Then  this 
'ere  officer,  lie  wanted  to  shirk.  He  wanted  to  scare  de 
king,  and  he  says :  '  If  I  bring  dat  boy  to  you,  you  will  get 
something  off  from  him.'  Then  the  king  got  so  mad  that  his 
face  went  clear  on  the  top  of  his  head,  and  he  says:  '  You 
bring  dat  boy  to  me  !  '  And  he  brought  him.  And  he  says  : 
'  You  take  dat  boy  away,  wash  him  up,  and  comb  his  hair. 
Give  him  a  new  pair  of  shoes  and  measure  him  for  a  new  suit 
of  clothes,  and  have  him  educated.'  And  he  took  the  boy 
away.  And  the  king  came  back,  after  a  while ;  and  he  had 
the  same  calico  horses,  and  he  asked  for  the  boy.  Everybody 
forgot  de  boy ;  but  de  king  didn't.  He  said:  'Bring  dat 
boy  to  me  !  '  And  they  brung  de  boy  ;  and  nobody  knew  de 
boy  but  de  king.  He  knew  him.  He  said:  'Now,  my 
child,  you  come  and  sit  right  here,  alongside  of  me.  Bight 
here.  You  belong  here.  Sit  right  alongside  of  me  in  this 
chariot.  You  belong  in  it.  Why,  you  know  I  have 
adopted  you.  You  are  my  child;  you  are  my  son,  my 
heir.  Sit  right  there.  There  is  right  where  you  belong.' 
"Wouldn't  dat  be  glad  tidings  of  great  joy  to  dat  nigger  boy? 
What   does   the  text  sa.y  :     It  am  to  be  to  all  people?     But, 


AND  RECITATIONS  No.  21.  .  133 

bredren,  wo  are  a  despised  people.  The  white  people  shove 
us  off  from  de  sidewalk,  and  they  think  it  God'o  service ;  but 
we  are  a  people.  We  are  an  oppressed  people,  but  we  are  a 
people ;  and  remember  this,  if  God  joined  with  Jesus  Christ 
for  the  oppressed,  despised  people — think  of  dat,  bredren, 
only  thunk  of  it.  Don't  dat  go  right  down  into  your  hearts? 
Now  it  is  time  for  the  second  text :  '  Hallelujah. '  I  want 
you  to  holler  just  as  loud  as  you  can  holler." 


WHEN  THE  TEACHER  GETS   CROSS. 


WHEN  the  teacher  gets  cross,  and  her  brown  eyes  get 
black, 
And  her  pencil  comes  down  on  the  desk  with  a  whack, 
We  chilluns  in  class  sits  up  straight  in  a  line, 
As  if  we  had  rulers  instead  of  a  spine ! 
It's  scary  to  cough,  and  it's  not  safe  to  grin, 
When  the  teacher  gets  cross  and  the  dimples  goes  in. 

When  the  teacher  gets  cross  the  tables  all  mix, 
And  the  ones  and  the  sevens  begins  playing  tricks, 
The  pluses  and  minus  is  just  little  smears 
Where  the  cry-babies  cry  all  their  slates  up  with  tears. 
The  Aggers  won't  add,  and  they  act  up  like  sin, 
When  the  teacher  gets  cross  and  the  dimples  goes  in. 

When  the  teacher  gets  cross  the  readers  gets  bad  ; 
The  lines  jiggle  round  till  the  chilluns  is  sad. 
And  Billy-boy  puffs  and  gets  red  in  the  face, 
As  if  he  and  the  lesson  were  running  a  race ! 
Till  she  hollows  out  "  Next,"  as  sharp  as  a  pin — 
When  the  teacher  gets  cross  and  the  dimples  goes  in. 

When  the  teacher  gets  good  her  smile  is  so  bright, 

The  tables  gets  straight,  and  the  readers  gets  right. 

The  pluses  and  minus  come  trooping  along, 

And  figgers  add  up  and  stops  being  wrong. 

And  we  chilluns  would  like  (but  we  dassen't)  to  shout, 

When  the  teacher  gets  good  and  the  dimples  comes  out. 


134  WERNERS  READINGS 


SCALLYWAG. 


CAROLINE    B.     LE    ROW 

I    AM  a  scallywag — that  is  the  truth  of  it. 
"Wouldn't  believe  it !     Just  look  at  me,  then  ! 
Kind  of  you,  mister,  to  speak  in  that  way  to  me, 

But  I  don't  belong  with  respectable  men. 
Quite  a  good  coat  and  a  face  that  looks  honest? 

Yes,  but  the  coat  was  a  present  I  got, 
Give  by  the  warden  what  keeps  the  State  prison, 
Found,  in  the  cellar  among  an  odd  lot. 

And  as  for  the  face — I've  no  wisli  to  deceive  you; 

'Tisn't  my  fault, — I  can't  help  it,  you  see. 
S'pose  it's  the  look  that  I  had  when  a  boy,  sir; 

Thought  I'd  'a'  lost  it, — 'tain't  no  good  to  me. 
Now,  there's  that  chap  who  I  left  in  prison, 

Him  as  give  me  the  coat  when  my  time  was  served  out, 
He  said  'twant  no  sense  for  a  square-lookin'  feller 

To  go  back  on  himself  and  be  knockin'  about. 

P'r'aps  after  all  I  hain't  jest  got  the  right  of  it, 

But  it  seems  as  if  life  was  a  hard  row  to  hoe. 
You  see  the  fact  is  that  I  git  clean  discouraged ; 

Luck's  all  dead  ag'in'  me, — I  can't  get  no  show. 
What  did  I  call  myself?     You  ought  to  know,  sir. 

What  is  the  name  that  such  duffers  as  you 
Give  to  the  fellers  the  world's  turned  its  back  on? 

You're  an  exception?     There  may  be  a  few. 

"  Scallywag,"  sir,  and  it  isn't  the  wust  name, 
'Cordin'  to  my  views,  that's  under  the  sun; 

For  a  wag  is  next  door  to  a  wit,  I  believe,  sir, 
And  some  think  the  angels  in  heaven  like  fun. 

The  "  seally's  "  just   "  scaly,"  no  more  and  no  less,  sir; 
It's  hard  on  the  fishes,  but  why  it  should  bo 


AND  RECITATIONS  No.  21.  135 

Hitched  onto  us  fellers  and  made  so  convenient 
For  broken-down  wretches  I'm  sure  I  can't  see. 

But  a  smile  is  a  long  ways  ahead  of  a  frown. 
Ha-ha!   You're  a-laughin' !    That's  my  way  of  doin'. 

When  things  all  go  wrong  what's  the  use  of  a  growl? 
I've  had  troubles  in  my  time,  I  know  all  about  'em, 
And  it  seems  sort  of  funny  when  I've  faced  the  music 

And  tried  to  cheer  up  those  who've    whined    on    the 
way, 
That  when  I'm  out  at  elbows  and  down    at   the  mouth, 
sir, 

Not  a  man  Jack  among  'em  has  one  word  to  say. 

It's  curious,  kinder,  when  I've  been  so  willin' 

To  shoulder  the  load  of  each  man  in  the  crowd, 
That  nobody's  ready  to  lend  me  a  hand,  sir, 

And  don't  take  no  notice  I'm  under  a  cloud. 
I  s'pose  it's  all  right  if  a  feller  could  see  it; 

But  it  comes  kinder  tough,  though,    and  sometimes   I 
think 
If  good  folks  had  feelin'  for  other  folks'  troubles, 

There'd  be  somethin'   to   keep  them    from    takin'    to 
drink. 

But  my  !      After  that,  sir,  'tain't  no  use  a-talkin' ; 

It's  all  up  with  a  man  when  the  liquor  goes  down. 
But  the  comfort  I  get  from  a  little  black  bottle 

Can't  be  found  nowhere  else,  sir,  all  over  the  town. 
It's  made  me  the  scallywag  you  are  a-talkin'  to, 

For  drink  leads  to  doin'  sech  rascally  things 
That  the  fust  thing  you    know   you're   shut   up   in   a 
buildin' 

That's  got  what  you'd  like  to  have,    sir — and    that's 
wings. 

Of  course,  I'm  a  hopeless  case,  just  as  I  told  you. 
There  can't  be  no  chance  for  a  loafer  like  me; 
But  I  hate  to  cee  fellers  as  might  have  some  show,  sir, 


136  WERNER'S  READINGS 

Jest  go  to  the  devil,  as  I  did,  you  see,  kind  sir. 
If  you'd  please  take  the  trouble  to  speak  to  'em 

And  help  'em  to  keep  in  the  regular  way, 
'Twonld  give  me  a  lift,  sir,  at  least  in  my  feelin's 

And  do  me  more  good  than  I  know  how  to  say. 


NO  SCIENCE  FOR  HIM. 


I    AM  sumthin'  of  a  veteran,  just  a-turnin'  eighty  year, 
A  man  that's  hale  and  hearty  and  a  stranger  to  all  fear; 
But  I've  heard  some  news  this  mornin'  that  has  made  my  old 

head  spin, 
And  I'm  goin'  to  ease  my  conshins  if  I  never  speak  again. 
I've  lived  my  fourscVe  years  of  life  and  never,  till  to-day, 
Was  I  taken  for  an  Ijjfct  or  an  ig'rant  kind  of  jay, 
To  be  stuffed  with  afflni  nonsense  'bout  those  crawl  in1  bugs 

and  worms      ^i 
That's  killin'  human  bein's  with  their  microscopic  germs. 
They  say  there's  "  mikrobes "   all    around    huntih'    for    their 

prey; 
There's  nothin'  pure  to  eat  or  drink  or  no  safe  place  to  stay ; 
There's  "  miasmy  "  in  the  dewfall  and  "  m alary  "  in  the  sun  ; 
'Tain't  safe  to  be  out-of-doors  at  noon   or  when    the    day    is 

done. 
There's  ' :  bacteery  "  in  the   water    and    "  tricheeny  "    in  the 

meat, 
"Ameeby  "  in  the  atmosphere  ;   "  calorey  ''  to  the  heat. 
There's   "  corpusells    and    pigments"    in   the   human    bein's 

blood, 
And  every  other  kind  of  thing  existin'  sence  the  flood. 
Terbacker's  full  of  "  nickerteen,"  whatever  that  may  be, 
And  your  throat  will  all  get  puckered  with  the  "  tannin  "  in 

•    the  tea. 
The  butter's  "  ole  margareen,"  it  never  saw  a  cow; 
And  things  is  gittin'  worse  and  worse  from  what  they  be  just 

now. 
Them  bugs  is  all  about  us,  just  waitin'  for  a  chance 


AND  RECITATIONS  No. -SI.  137 

To  navigate  our  vitals  and  to  knaw  us  off  like  plants. 
There's  men  that  spend  a  lifetime  huntin'  worms    just    like  a 

goose, 
And  tackin'  Latin  names  on  'em  and  settin'  on  'em  loose. 
Now,  I  don't  believe  such  nonsense   and  I    don't    intend    to 

If  things  has  come  to  such  a  pass  I'm  satisfied  to  die. 
I'll  go  hang  me  in  the  cellar,  for  I  won't  bo  such  a  fool 
As  to  wait  until  I'm  pizened  by  an  "  annymallycool.'' 


YOUNG  AMERICA. 


THE  central  figure  was  a  bareheaded  woman  with  a  broom 
in  her  hand.  She  stood  on  the  back  step, » and  was 
crying : 

"George!" 

There  was  no  response,  but  anybody  who  had  been  on  the 
other  side  of  the  close-boarded  fence  at  the  foot  of  the  garden 
mii-ht  have  observed  two  bovs  intently  engaged  in  building  a 
mud  pie. 

"  That's  your  mother  holl'erin',  Georgie,"  said  one  of  the 
two,  placing  his  eye  to  a  knot-hole  and  glancing  through  to 
the  stoop. 

"I  don't  care,"  said  the  other. 

"  Ain't  you  goin'  in?  " 

"No!  " 

"  Georgie!  "  came  another  call,  short  and  sharp,  "  do  you 
hear  me?  " 

There  was  no  answer. 

"Where  is  she  now?"  inquired  Georgie,  putting  in  the 
filling  of  the  pie. 

"  On  the  stoop,"  answered  his  friend  at  the  knot-hole. 

"What's  she  doin'?" 

"Ain't  doin'  nothin'." 

"  George  Augustus !  " 

Still  no  answer. 

"You  needn't  think  you  can  hide  from  me,  young  man. 


138  WERNER'S  READINGS 

for  I  can  see  yon;  and  if  vou^cfon't  come  in  here  at  once  I'll 
come  out  there  in  a  way  that  you'll  know  it." 

Now  this  was  an  eminently  natural  statement,  but  hardly 
plausible,  as  her  eyes  would  have  had  to  pierce  an  inch-board 
fence  to  see  Georgie;  and  even  were  this  possible,  it  would 
have  required  a  glance  in^hat  special  direction,  and  not  over 
the  top  of  a  pear  tree  in  an  almost  opposite  way.  Even  the 
boy  at  the  knot-hole  could  hardly  repress  a  smile. 

"What's  she  doin'  now?"  inquired  Georgie. 

' '  She  stands  ther'  yet. ' ' 

"I  won't  speak  to  you  again,  George  Augustus, "  came 
the  voice.  ".Your  father  will  be  home  in  a  few  minutes,  and 
I  shall  tell  all  about  what  you  have  done." 

Still  no  answer. 

"  Ain't  you  afraid?  "  asked  the  conscientious  young  man, 
drawing  his  eye  from  the  knot-hole  to  rest  it. 

"No!  she  won't  tell  pa;  she  never  does;  she  only  says  it 
to  scare  me." 

Thus  enlightened  and  reassured,  the  guard  covered  the 
knot-hole  again." 

"Ain't  you  coming  in  here,  young  man?"  again  de- 
manded the  woman,  "or  do  you  want  me  to  come  out  there 
to  you  with  a  stick?     I  won't  speak  to  you  again,  sir." 

"  Is  she  comin'  ?  "  asked  the  baker. 

"No." 

' '  Which,  way  is  she  lookin'  ?  ' ' 

"  She's  lookin'  over  in  the  other  yard." 

"  Do  you  hear  me,  I  say?  "  came  the  call  again. 

No  answer. 

"George  Augustus,  do  you  hear  your  mother?" 

Still  no  answer. 

"Oh,  you  just  wait,  young  man,  till  your  father  comes 
home,  and  he'll  make  you  hear,  I'll  warrant  you." 

"She's  gone  in  now,"  announced  the  faithful  sentinel, 
withdrawing  from  his  post. 

"All  right!  take  hold  of  this  crust  and  pull  it  down  on 
that  side,  and  that'll  be  another  pie  done,"  said  the  remorse- 
stricken  George  Augustus. 


AND  RECITATIONS  No.  21.  189 


SENT  BACK  BY  THE  ANGELS. 


FREDERICK    LANGBRIDGE. 

i(    A     LITTLE  bit  queer"— my  Mary! 
/i      "  Her  roof  not  quite  in  repair!" 
And  it's  that  you  think,  with  a  nod  and  wink, 
'  As  you  sit  in  my  easy  chair ! 
Drop  it,  I  say,  old  feller — 
Drop  it,  I  tell  you,  do, 
Or  language,  I  doubt,  I  shall  soon  let  out 
I'd  rather  not  use  to  you. 

Shake  hands,  and  I  ax  your  pardon — 

'Twas  chaffing  I  knowed  you  were; 
But  a  hint  or  a  slur  or  a  joke  on  her 

Is  a  thing  as  I  can't  abear. 

And  what  if  she  has  her  fancies? 

Why,  so  has  us  all,  old  chap ; 
!Not  many's  the  roof  as  is  reg'lar  proof, 

If  a  bit  of  a  whim's  a  gap. 

She's  up  to  the  nines,  my  Mary ; 

Lord  bless  her,  she  keeps  us  right ! 
It's  up  with  her  gown  and  the  house  scrubbed  down 

As  certain  as  Friday  night. 

Is  it  rhumatiz,  cough,  lumbager? 

Is  anything  queer  inside? 
She'll  physic  you  up  with  a  sup  in  a  cup 

As  tickles  the  doctor's  pride. 

Is  it  mending  of  socks  or  trousers, 

Or  starching  your  best  cravat? 
Is  it  letting  alone  the  joint  with  the  bone, 

And  choosing  the  goose  that's  fat? 

She  hasn't  her  likes,  my  Mary — 

And  never  put  out  nor  riled ; 
She  hasn't  a  fad,  and  she  never  had — 

Excepting  about  the  child. 


140  WERNERS  READINGS 

Six  years  we  was  wed,  and  over, 

And  never  a  cradle  got — 
And  nowhere's,  I  swear,  a  more  dotinger  pair 

On  baby  and  tiny  tot; 

So,  when  of  a  winter  morning 

At  last  we  was  inn  and  dad, 
]STo  royal  princess  had  the  welcome,  I  guess, 

As  our  little  stranger  had. 

And  didn't  my  Mary  bless  her! 

Just  picter  her,  them  as  can, 
A-doing  .her  best  with  her  mother's  breast 

For  Alexandrina  Ann  ! 

It  was  so  as  we'd  named  the  baby, 

By  way  of  a  start  in  life, 
From  parties,  I  knew,  as  could  help  her  through- 

The  Queen  and  my  uncle's  wife. 

And  wasn't  the  baby  feted! 

She  lay  in  her  bassinet 
With  muslin  a?id  lace  on  her  tiny  face, 

As  ever  growed  smaller  yet. 

Bat  it  wasn't  in  lace  or  coral 

To  bribe  her  to  linger  here; 
I  looks  in  her  eyes,  and  "  She's  off,"  I  sighs, 

k'  She's  off  to  her  proper  sp'ere." 

Here  treasures  was  all  around  her, 

But  she  was  too  wise  and  grave 
For  the  pug  on  the  shelf,  and,  as  big  as  herself, 

The  doll  as  her  grandma  gave. 

She  wanted  the  stars  as  playthings, 

Our  wonderful  six-weeks'  guest; 
So,  with  one  little  sigh,  she  closed  her  eye, 

And  woke  on  a  hangel's  breast. 

And  how  did  the  missis  take  it? 
Most  terrible  calm  and  mild ; 
"With  a  face  a' most  like  a  bloodless  ghost? 
She  covered  the  sleeping  child. 


AND  RECITATIONS  JVo.  81.  Hi 

There  was  me,  like  a  six-foot  babby, 
A-blubbering  long  and  loud, 
While  she  sat  there  in  the  rocking-chair, 
A- sewing  the  little  shroud. 

I  couldn't  abide  to  see  it — 

The  look  in  her  tearless  eye ; 
I  touches  her  so,  and  I  whispers  low, 

"  My  darlingest,  can't  you  cry?  " 

She  gave  me  a  smile  for  answer, 

Then  over  her  work  she  bowed ; 
And  all  through  the  night  her  needle  bright 

Was  sewing  the  little  shroud. 

In  the  gray  of  the  winter  morning, 

The  sun  like  a  ball  of  flame, 
Sent  up  like  a  toy  by  a  whistling  boy, 

The  mite  of  a  coffin  came. 

He  reckoned  it  only  a  plaything — 

A  drum  or  a  horse-and-cart — ■ 
The  box  that  had  space,  O  Father  of  grace, 

To  bury  a  mother's  heart. 

Great  God,  such  a  shaller  coffin, 
And  yet  so  awful  deep  ! 

I  placed  it  there  by  the  poor  wife's  chair, 
And  I  thinks,  "  At  last  she'll  weep." 
But  she  rose  with  never  a  murmur, 
As  calm  as  a  spectre  thin, 

And — waxy  and  cold  and  so  light  to  hold- 
She  places  the  baby  in. 

Then,  moving  with  noiseless  footfall, 

She  reaches  from  box  and  shelf 
The  little  one's  mug,  and  the  china  pug, 
And  the  doll  that  was  big  as  herself. 

Then — God  !   it  was  dread  to  watch  her — 

All  white  in  her  crape-black  gown, 
With  her  own  cold  hands,  my  Mary  stands 

And  fastens  the  coffin  down. 


142  WERNERS  READINGS 

I  carried  the  plaything  coffin, 

Tucked  under  my  arm,  just  so ; 
And  she  stood  there  at  the  head  of  the  stair, 

And  quietly  watched  us  go. 

So  parson  he  comes  in  his  nightgown, 

And  says  that  as  grass  is  man, 
And  earth  had  trust  of  the  pinch  of  dust 

That  was  Alexandrina  Ann. 

I  was  trying  to  guess  the  riddle 

I  never  could  answer  pat — 
What  the  wisdom  and  love  as  is  planning  above 

Could  mean  by  a  life  like  that ; 

And  I  got  my  foot  on  the  doorstep, 

When,  scaring  my  mournful  dream, 
Shrill,  wild,  and  clear,  there  tore  on  my  ear 

The  sound  of  a  maniac  scream. 

The  scream  of  a  raving  maniac, 

But,  Father  of  death  and  life ! 
I  listened  and  knew,  the  madness  through, 

The  voice  of  my  childless  wife. 

One  moment  I  clutched  and  staggered, 

Then  down  on  my  bended  knee, 
And  up  to  the  sky  my  wrestling  cry 

Went  up  for  my  girl  and  me. 

I  went  to  her  room,  and  found  her; 

She  sat  on  the  floor,  poor  soul ! 
Two  burning  streaks  on  her  death-pale  cheeks, 

And  eyes  that  were  gleeds  of  coal. 

And  now  she  would  shriek  and  shudder, 

And  now  she  would  laugh  aloud, 
And  now  for  a  while,  with  an  awful  smile, 

She'd  sew  at  a  little  shroud. 

Dear  Lord,  through  the  day  and  darkness. 
Dear  Lord,  through  the  endless  night, 
I  sat  at  her  side,  while  she  shrieked  and  cried, 
And  I  thought  it  would  ne'er  be  light. 


AND  RECITATIONS  No.  21.  143 

And  still,  through  the  blackness  thronging 
"With  shapes  that  were  dread  to  see, 
My  shuddering  cry  to  the  God  on  high 
Went  up  for  my  girl  and  me. 

At  last,  through  the  winder,  morning 

Came  glimmering,  cold  and  pale ; 
And,  faint  but  clear,  to  my  straining  ear 

Was  carried  a  feeble  wail. 

I  went  to  the  door  in  wonder, 

And  there,  in  the  dawning  day, 
All  swaddled  and  bound  in  a  bundle  round, 

A  sweet  little  baby  lay. 

It  lay  on  the  frosty  doorstep, 

A  pert  little  two-months'  child. 
Dumbfounded  and  slow,  I  raised  it  so, 

And  it  looked  in  my  face  and  smiled. 

And  so,  as  I  kissed  and  loved  it, 

I  grajuly  growed  aware 
As  the  Father  in  bliss  had  sent  us  this, 

The  answer  to  wrestling  prayer. 

In  wonder  and  joy  and  worship, 

With  tears  that  were  soft  and  blest, 
I  carried  the  mite,  and,  still  and  light, 

I  laid  it  on  Mary's  breast. 

I  didn't  know  how  she'd  take  it, 

So  goes  on  an  artful  tack ! 
"  The  little  'un  cried  for  her  mother's  side, 

And  the  hangels  has  sent  her  back!" 

My  God!   I  shall  ne'er  forget  it, 

Though  spared  for  a  hundred  years — 
The  soft  delight  on  her  features  white, 

The  rush  of  her  blissful  tears. 

The  eyes  that  were  hard  and  vacant 

Grew  wonderful  sweet  and  mild, 
And  she  cries,  "  Come  rest  on  your  mammy's  breast, 

My  own  little  hangel  child ! ' ' 


144  WERNER'S  READINGS 

And  so  from  that  hour  my  darling 
Grew  happy  and  strong  and  well; 

And  the  joy  that  I  felt  as  to  God  I  knelt 
Is  what  I  can  noways  tell. 
There's  parties  that  sneers  and  tells  you 
There's  nothing  but  clouds  up  there; 

I  answers  'em  so,  "There's  a  God,  I  know, 
And  a  Father  that  heareth  prayer." 

And  what  if  my  Mary  fancies 

The  babe  is  a  child  of  light — 
Our  own  little  dear  sent  back  to  us  here? — 

And  mayn't  she  be  somewheres  right? 

Here,  Mary,  my  darling,  Mary ! 

A  friend  has  come  into  town ; 
Don't  mind  for  her  nose  nor  changing  her  clo'es 

But  bring  us  the  hangel  down. 


SETTIN'  UP  WITH  ELDER  McK'AG'S  PEGGY." 


HENRY    CHRISTOPHER    MCCOOK. 


[From  "  The  Latimers."l 

\  "X  7IIATI  ye  gawin',  Andy?"  siz  mother,  who  sat  on  the 
VV        hearth,  a-peelin'  apples. 

"  Why,  mommer,"  siz  I,  "  I'm  a-thinkin'  o'  settin'  up  with 
Peggy  McK'ag  the  night." 

"Ah,  sonny,"  siz  she,  "A'  misdoubt  ye 've  a  pore  chanct 
with  yon  gial." 

"Well,  mom,"  siz  I,  "all  A'  crave's  a  fair  field  an'  no 
favor.  Annyhow  A'll  try,  for  ye  know  bravely  that  Peggy 
McK'ag's  the  likeliest  lass  in- all  the  settlement." 

"Ay,  Andy,  Peggy's  a  rare  well-favored  lass,  A'll  allow," 
siz  she.  "  But  she's  been  contrairy  with  ye  this  twel'-month, 
an'  don't  seem  to  care  a  farden  for  ye.  She's  no  better  nor 
you,  for  all  her  puttin'  on  airs.  An'  A'  wair  in  yiur  place, 
A'  wouldn't  go  the  len'tli  o'  the  doour  for  to  pleasure  her." 


AND  RECITATIONS  No.  21.  145 

6 

"What,  mommer,"  siz  I,  "don't  ye  think  she  cares  jist  a 
weeney  hit  for  me?  " 

"Shame  a  haet!"  siz  she;  "though  Ali'm  sore  pained  for  til 
sav't  on  your  account,  honey ;  but  A'm  feared  it's  all  no 
good.  Ye've  been  sure  o'  her  nigh  a  dozen  times,  off  an'  on ; 
but  she's  like  the  Irishman's  flea,  when  ye  put  your  finger  on 
her  she  isn't  there.  Give  her  clane  up  at  onct,  Andy.  Leta- 
bee  for  letabee,  siz  I,  an'  there's  as  good  fish  in  the  say  as  iver 
was  caught.  A'  misdoubt  Peggy's  tuck  up  with  that  poky 
numskull,  Bill  Mackinzie." 

"  Well,  mom,"  siz  I,  "A'll  take  my  chanct  along  o'  him, 
an'  divil  take  the  hin'most.  Faint  heart  ne'er  won  fair  lady, 
ye  know,  so  here  goes.  Mebbe  after  all  I'll  make  a  riffle. 
Who  knows?" 

Thereupon,  havin'  done  the  chores,  an'  tanded  to  the 
critters,  an'  righted  things  around  the  barn,  A'  got  on  ma 
Sunday  duds,  trigged  up  a  bit,  slicked  ma  hair  with  the 
recldin'  comb,  an'  about  sundown  started  acrost  the  clarin' 
to  Elder  McK'ag's  cabin. 

As  A'  drawed  nigh  the  house,  who  should  A'  see  but  Bill 
Mackinzie  comin'  cat-a-corner  acrost  the  fields  jist  fornanst 
me.      He  was  dressed  up  to  the  nine's,  an'  fine  he  knowed  it. 

"  Dawgon  him  !  "  thinks  I,  "the  jigs  up  for  this  time. 
A'll  have  no  chance  the  night  for  to  git  a  word  in  aidgewise 
with  Peggy." 

Howiver,  A'  hurried  up  to  the  picket  gate  peart  as  ye 
pl'ase,  bat  feelin'  mighty  jubous,  for  all  that. 

"How  air  ye?"  siz  I,  chipper  enough,  for  A'  minded  the 
sayin'  that  it's  alluz  good  to  be  ceevil,  as  the  old  woman  said 
when  she  curtsied  to  the  divil.  But  in  meh  heart  A'  was 
a-thinkin'  how  kin  A'  git  shut  of  that  long-legged  codger, 
an'  marvelin'  if  A'  wouldn't  hev  to  knock  the  hindsights 
off' n  him  afore  A'  was  done  with  it. 

"  Lollyguin !  "  siz  Bill,  startin'  back,  "ye  baint  hyur 
ag'in,  Andy  Burbeck?" 

"  Wull,  mester  sassbox,"  siz  I,  feelin'  my  dander  risin', 
"  whar  am  A'  then,  ef  A'  hain't  hyur?  Belike,  A've  got  a 
better  right  nor  ye  to  be  hyur.      Annyhow,    ef    my    prisence 


146  WERNER'S  READINGS 

mislikes  ye,  ye  hain't  no  call  to  go  furder,  an'  kin  jist  take 
the  back  trail. ' ' 

"  Hold  your  gab !  "  siz  he,  "  ye  beeta  hadn't  gimme  anny 
of  your  impidence  or  I'll " 

"  Wkat'll  ye  do?"  siz  I,  takin'  a  step  for'a'd  an'  comin' 
clost  til  him,  for  A'  was  gettin'  powerful  het  up,  ye  see. 
"  Tech  me  if  ye  dar!  "  says  I.  "  Ye' 11  have  your  wark  cut 
out  for  ye,  my  brave  laddie.  Ye  dassen't  do't,  bad  cess  to 
ye  !  Ye  dassen't  lay  the  heft  o'  your  finger  on  me  !  Some- 
body'll  git  hurted  ef " 

Jist  then  the  cabin  door  opened  an'  Elder  McK'ag  stepped 
out.  Both  on  us  wilted  at  wanct,  an'  turned  to'r'dhim,  sorta 
sheepish-like. 

"  What's  all  this  rumtion,  lads?"  siz  he,  a-lookin'  at  us 
with  a  quizzical  cast  to  his  eye.  ' '  Come  in  !  ye  beeta  come 
intil  the  house,  an'  stop  your  carryin'  on  out  thar." 

"  Good  aven,  Elder,"  siz  Bill,  kindeh  dazed  like. 

"  Good  avenin'  til  ye,  Elder,"  siz  I,  quite  put  out  an'  all 
in  a  swither,  an'  hardly  knowin'  what  I  sayed.  "  We  wair 
jist  a-comin'  in,  but  stopped  a  minute  to  pass  the  time  o' 
day." 

A'  knowed  he  opined  purty  clairly  what  was  a-goin'  on 
atween  us;  tho',  when  he  heard  what  A'  telled  him,  he  niver 
let  on.  But  A'  suspicioned  he  was  a-chucklin'  inside,  an' 
mayhap  wusht  we'd  gone  off  a  bit  furder  an'  smasher  other 
to  smithereens,  for  the  Elder  was  a  widder  man,  an'  had  nary 
childer  nor  Peggy,  an'  he  didn't  care  much  to  have  anny 
bucks  a-takin'  a  shine  ter  her. 

He  stood  a-lookin'  at  us  awhile  with  his  thumbs  hitched 
intil  his  galluses,  an'  then  sayed  : 

"Ay,  ay,  lads!  Ah '11  uphold  ye  for  that.  But  it  sounded 
rayther  rambunctious-like,  for  passin'  the  time  o'  day.  It 
was  a  heap  o'  cacklin'  for  so  small  an  aigg.  Howsomiver, 
walk  in  an'  tak'  a  sate." 

In  A'  marched,  an1  Bill  a-follerin'  ;  but  his  legs  were  so 
long  that  he  had  to  jouk  his  red  head  as  he  went  inunder  the 
door  jamb.  The  table  was  set  for  supper  in  the  middle  e' 
the  room,  an'  a  tallow  dip  was  a-burnin'  on't.     A  big  back- 


AND  RECITATIONS  No.  21.  147 

log  was  in  the  wide  chimbley  with  the  flames  eatin'  a  right 
smart  chunk  out'n  the  heart.  The  crane  swung  in'ard  with 
the  kittle  a-sizzin'  an'  a-stamein'  ;  an'  a  spider  full  o'  bacon 
a-brilein'  on  the  hot  coals,  an'  a  pile  o'  flannel  cakes  on  a 
plate  jist  ready  to  be  sarved. 

But  hokey-pokey  !  all  that  was  nought  to  Peggy,  who  stood 
thai*  anent  the  h'ar th  !  She  had  on  a  smart  red  an'  black 
plaid  flannel  gownd,  span  new,  an'  a  white  apern,  an'  a  linen 
hankercher  folded  acrost  her  buzzum,  an'  beaded  moccasins 
on  her  nate  little  fut.  Her  cheeks  were  like  peach  blooms  in 
the  springtime,  an'  her  sleeves  rolled  up  above  the  elbows, 
a-showin'  her  well-turned  arms. 

My  fathers!  wairen't  she  the  verra  pink  o'  parfection ! 
Mother  alius  wanted  me  tuh  kape  company  wi'  Sal  Martin, 
becaze,  she  sayed,  she's  better  nor  she'  bonny.  But  gimme 
Peggy  McK'ag,  siz  I,  for  she's  both  better  arS  bonny.  Sal 
Martin's  not  a  patchin'  til  her!  An'  thar  she  stood  as  purty 
as  a  picter,  a-grinnin'  an'  a-kackelin'  atusuns,  as  we  traipsed 
in  after  her  dad,  Indian  file. 

Now,  A'd  alluz  been  the  bashfulest  an'  awkerdest  kind  of 
a  gawk  when  A'  wint  for  to  see  the  gals,  an'  A'  suspicioned 
that  was  why  Peggy  didn't  set  so  much  store  by  me.  But 
seein'  her  thar  so  all-fired  han'some,  an'  thinkin'  o'  me 
a-losin'  o'  her  all  along  o'  Bill  Mackinzie  riled  me  so"s  A' 
didn't  keer  a  bawbee  what  A'  sayed.  A'  felt  like  all  pos- 
sessed the  whole  night,  from  A'  come  intil  the  door  till  A' 
left  the  cabin.  So  A'  yorked  off  my  coonskin  cap,  an' 
made  my  best  obeyderence,  an'  bid  Peggy  good  avenin',  an' 
wusht  her  good  health,  "  though,"  siz  I,  "  th's  no  needces- 
sity  for  that,  for  ye're  the  picter  o'  rosy  health,  an'  purtier 
nor  a  posey." 

She  wasn't  uset  til  sich  compliments  from  me  (no  more 
was  A'  myself,  for  that  matter!),  an'  sort  o'  started,  an' 
blushed,  an'  looked  quare,  an'  belike  a  bit  miffed,  to  boot. 
But  hit  or  miss,  siz  I  to  myself ,  it's  now  or  niver!  So  A' 
spakes  right  up  a'gin'  : 

"Peggy,  my  dear,  mother  bid  me  for  til  tell  ye  that  she's 
got  that  recait  from  the  meenister's  wife  for  makin'    a  black 


148  WERNERS  READINGS 

dye  out'n  new-mown  hay.  An'  ef  ye'll  jist  come  over  the 
morrow,  she'll  show  ye  how  to  mix  it  for  dyeiir  the  Elder's 
Sunday  breeches,  as  ye  was  inquirin'  about." 

"A'm  sure  I'm  much  obleeged  til  her,"  siz  Peggy,  with  a 
bit  blush  a-tippin'  her  two  cheeks.  "An'  til  ye,  too,  Andy," 
says  she,  "  for  a-tellin'  o'  me.    But  hav  ye  had  supper  yit  ?  " 

"  Not  a  haet,"  siz  I ;  "  an'  ef  it  won't  put  ye  out  too  much 
ye  may  plaze  put  ma  name  in  the  pot." 

"Sartan,"  siz  she,  "  an'  hearty  welcome  A'm  sure,  ef 
ye'll  take  pot  luck  wi'  us.  Good  avenin'  til  ye,  M  ester  Mac - 
kinzie,"  siz  she,  a-turnin'  to  Bill  an'  droppin'  a  curtsey  as 
genteel  as  rale  quality.  "  Won't  ye  take  a  cheer  an'  have  a 
bite  an'  sup?  " 

"That  A'  will,  an'  thankee  kindly,"  siz  Bill;  an'  takin' 
up  a  stool  he  toted  it  acrost  the  room  an'  sat  down  aside 
Peggy,  as  brash  as  a  town  beau. 

But  what  manners  could  ye  axpec'  (thinks  I)  from  sech  a 
lunk  as  that  Bill?  Ye  can't  make  a  silk  purse  out  of  a  sow's 
ear,  nohow;  an'  it's  hard  gettin'  breeks  off  a  Highlander. 
All  the  same,  howiver,  A'  noted  that  Peggy  hadn't  ast  me 
to  take  a  sate,  an'  A'  was  gittin'  to  feel  a  lettle  huffy  about 
it,  when  the  Elder,  seein'  Peggy  had  served  the  supper 
sayed  : 

"Come,  lads,  have  a  snack!  Jist  set  right  down  an' 
fall  to." 

Now,  bein'  s'ated,  an'  Peggy  behint  a  st'arain'  pot  o'  sas- 
safras tay,  with  crame  an'  maple  sugar  on  one  side,  an'  a 
crock  o'  bubblin'  mush  an'  the  milk  piggin  on  t'other,  the 
Elder  turns  to  me  an'  says  : 

"Andy,  wull  ye  do  the  biddin'  ?  " 

"Axcuse  me,  Mr.  McK'ag,"  siz  I,  "it  'u'd  ill  become  sich 
as  me  to  ast  a  blessin'  in  the  prisence  of  an  Elder  o'  the 
church.     Axcuse  me,  plaze!  " 

Elder  McK'ag  looked  askant  at  me,  as  though  ruther  ju- 
berous  how  to  take  what  A'  sayed,  then  turned  to  Bill,  who 
sat  foment  me. 

"  Mester  Mackinzie,"  siz  he,  "wull  ye  do  the  biddin', 
then?  "  •     -:'■ 


AND  RECITATIONS  No.  21.  149 

Now  Bill  was  a  perfesser,  though  a  powerful  weak  un, 
leastaways  in  spots;  an'  A'  reckon  he  tho't  he'd  a  chanct  to 
cotton  to  the  Elder  an'  git  on  his  good  side  an'  show  off 
ag'in'  me.  So  he  jouked  his  noddle  an'  shet  his  eyes,  an' 
began  : 

k '  For  what  we  are  about  to  recave, ' '  siz  he,  startin'  off  as 
peart  as  a  parson. 

Then,  seein'  he  had  got  on  to  the  wrong  trail  an'  started 
the  -Fi^copal  grace,  which  he  knowed  'u'd  rile  the  Elder 
powerful,  he  balked  an'  stuttered,  an'  got  red  as  a  gum-tree 
after  frost.  Then  hopin'  he'd  make  out  nex'  time,  he  struck 
in  ag'in : 

"Now — I — lay  me — O  good  land!"  siz  he,  breakin'  off, 
clane  upset. 

Peggy  snickered  right  out,  but  A'  helt  in,  sober  as  a  jedge, 
more  by  good  luck  nor  good  guidin'.  Tlier'  was  an  awful 
pause.  Peggy  got  redder'n  a  beet,  an'  then  whiter'n  a  lily 
(God  bless  her  dear  heart!)  an'  looked  up  scaret  like  intil  her 
father's  face.  But  the  old  man  niver  let  on,  an'  sayed  nary 
a  word  savin'  only  "  Humph !"  an',  pickin'  up  knife  an'  fork, 
began  to  sarve  the  bacon. 

Willi,  A'  didn't  envy  Bill  that  releegious  axercise  !  Nor 
A'  didn't  pity  him  nuther.  Ye'll  sing  small  now,  my  larkie, 
thinks  I,  an'  was  fairly  bu'stin'  for  a  good  guffaw,  butdastent 
do't  lest  the  Elder  'd  come  down  on  me  like  a  thousand  o' 
brick.  Besides,  A'  seed  that  Peggy,  bein'  kind  o'  sorry  for 
Bill,  an'  thinkin'  she  had  hurted  his  feelin's,  was  castin' 
about  for  til  smooth  things  over  a  bit,  an'  was  mighty  per- 
lite  til  'im,  an'  jist  sort  o'  gi  nie  the  go-by  for  the  rest  o'  the 
male. 

"  Oh,  yes,"  thinks  I.  "  Ye're  keerless  enough  o'  my 
feelin's,  but  thunderin'  pertickler  about  hissen?  " 

Supper  over,  "Come,  Peggy,"  says  the  Elder,  solemnly, 
"  le's  have  warship  now." 

A'  noticed  that  he  didn't  ax  Bill  to  take  the  Buk.  So 
Peggy  brought  the  Bible  an'  set  it  down  afore  her  father,  an' 
shoved  the  taller  dip  alongside  him.  But  A'  couldn't  listen 
much,  nor  pray  nuther,  as  far  as  that  goes,  for  thinkin'  that  the 


150  WERNER'S  READINGS 

plague j  gial  had  sot  down  clost  to  Bill,  an'  for  watcliin'  him 
a-castin'  sheep's  eyes  at  her,  whiles,  through,  all  the   readin'. 

"  Bonny  perfessor  that!  "  thinks  I,  "  a-sparkin'  at  sich  a 
time! 

Warship  done,  the  Elder  lit  his  pipe  an'  sot  down  in  a 
corner  of  the  chimbley-place  to  smoke.  Then  what  does 
Peggy  do  but  hurry  up  with  the  best  cheer  an'  set  it  down 
right  by  her  dad,  an'  ast  Bill  to  tak'  a  sate  !  He  was  tickled 
to  death  at  that,  to  be  sure,  an'  sot  down  as  large  as  a  lord  an' 
began  a  long  crack  wi'  the  Elder. 

Seein'  how  things  was  a-gawin,  my  heart  sunk  almost  intil 
my  boots;  but  gittin'  despert  ag'in,  A'  shuk  off  the  doldrums 
an'  spunked  up  to  Peggy  an"  says : 

"Well,  Peggy,  seein'  there's  nought  else  for  me  to  do,  A' 
reckon  A'  beeta  turn  to  an'  help  ye  redd  off  the  table.  Men 
folks  is  no  shucks  at  tydin'  up  things,  an'  too  many  cooks 
spoil  the  broth,"  siz  I,  lookin'  hard  an'  glum  at  Bill,  "but 
willin'  heart  makes  light  work,  and  A'll  make  out  for  lack  o' 
better;  so  here  goes,  Peggy,  ma  dear." 

With  that  A'  nabbed  a  han'ful  o'  plates  an'  toted  'em  intil 
the  little  leanto  whar  Peggy  kep'  an'  washed  her  chainey 
things.  Land  o'  liberty !  All  unbeknownst,  A'd  fallen  onto 
a  streak  o'  good  luck !  Thar  A'  was  in  that  cuddy  all  meh 
lone  with  Peggy,  peekin'out  o'  the  lettle  door  at  Bill  an'  the 
Elder  argifyin'  hot  an'  heavy  on  the  Stamp  Act  an'  the  Sons 
o'  Liberty,  an'  havin'  sich  interteenin'  discourse  that  they 
ga^e  nayther  heed  nor  hap  to  Peggy  an'  me.  That  was  my 
las'chanct!  Now  or  niver,  thinks  I!  Go  in,  Andy,  an' 
make  a  spoon  or  spile  a  horn! 

My  heart  was  a-poundin'  like  a  churn  dasher  as  A'  stood 
thar  a- watcliin'  Peggy  swash  about  the  plates  in  the  smokin' 
hot  water,  an'  lookin'  sweeter  nor  a  sprig  posey. 

"Peggy,''  siz  I  at  last,  leanin'  over  clost  to  her  an'  sp'akin' 
low;  "Peggy,  A'  can't  stand  this  anny  longer.  A'  love  ye 
more'n  all  creation,  an' -'' 

"J¥o,no/  That  won t  do  /"  sings  out  the  Elder,  so 
loud  an'  pat  that  we  both  started  an'  turned  to'r'd  the  door, 
a-thinkin'  he  was  rp'akin'  til  us  uns.      But  thanks   stars !    he 


AND  RECITATIONS  No.  21.  151 

was  a-settin'  tliar  as  cool  as  a  cowcumber,  lookin'  intil  the  fire 
an'  argifyin'  with  Bill,  an'  it  was  him  he  was  hollerin'  at,  not 
me.  A'  don't  know,  an'  niver  shall,  A'  axpec',  what  pos- 
sessed me  to  do  it,  but  as  Peggy  turned  back  her  face  from 
the  door  A'  jist  up  an'  kissed  her  cheek.  A'  couldn't  'a' 
helped  it  ef  old  Sattan  hisself  had  'a'  bean  thar  to  bunder. 

Jiminy  !  A'  felt  that  buss  clane  down  til  my  toes.  But, 
sakes  alive:  thinks  I,  what  hev  A'  done?  A've  spilt  the  fat 
intil  the  fire  this  time,  sartain  !  Now  A '11  get  my  walkin' 
papers,  sure  as  shootin' ! 

"Goodness,  gracious  me,  Andy  Burbeck !  "  siz  Peggy, 
droppin'  her  plate  intil  the  pan.     "  How  dare  ye  do  that?" 

"Peggy,''  siz  I,  still  kindeh  possessed  an'  thinkin'  A' 
might  as  wull  die  for  an  old  sheep  as  a  lamb,  "  Peggy,"  siz 
I,  "  bein'  as  ye  wush  it,  A'll  jist  show  ye  how  A'  dast  to  do 
it,"  an'  A'  up  an'  kissed  her  ag'in. 

What  did  she  do?  She  didn't  do  nought,  but  blushed  an' 
hung  her  purty  face,  an'  saj7ed  "Andy,"  as  low  an'  as  swaet 
as  a  cooin'  cushat,  an'  looked  down  intil  the  pan,  an'  went  on 
quietly  washin'  the  dishes ! 

"  Peggy,  my  darlin' !  "  siz  I,  almost  wild  with  hope,  but 
feared  lest  A'  might  blunder  an'  nip  the  rose  in  the  bud ; 
"Peggy,  ye  do  love  me,  A'  belave.  Tell  me  that  ye  do, 
Peggy,  my  love,  an'  A'm  the  proudest  an'  happiest  man  in 
the  Wistern  Survey." 

She  looked  up  askant,  an'  sayed  :  "  Hoosh,  Andy  ;  don't 
spake  so  loud,  plaze.     Bill  '11  overhear  us,  an'  then " 

"Drat  Bill!  "  siz  I;  "spake  out,  sweetheart,  an'  tell  me 
the  good  news  wi'  your  own  swate  lips.  Do  ye  love  me, 
Pes'srv  ? ' ' 

""Wull — Andy,"  siz  she,  slow  an'  solemn,  but  tinder  an' 
arnest  like,  "A' — allow — that — A' — do!  " 

An'  she  pursed  up  her  red  lips  jist  a  lilly-bit,  an' — wull,  A' 
raythur  reckon  A'  didn't  neglec'  that  Providential  oppor- 
toonity ! 

"Ah,  Peggy,"  siz  I,  lookin'  over  at  Bill,  who  was  six 
good  inches  taller  nor  me,  an'  A'm  no  runty,  nayther,  "  it 
ain't  alluz  the  longest  pole  'at  knocks  the  persimmons,  is  it. 


152  WERNER'S  READINGS 

darlin'?  But  what  possessed  ye  to  favor  Bill  so  an'  slight  me, 
the  night?  When  ye  went  an'  sot  beside  him  at  warship,  an' 
than  give  him  the  best  cheer  beside  your  dad,  A'  tho't  it  was 
all  up  with  me." 

"  Tut,  tut !  Andy,"  siz  she,  "  what  'u'd  'a'  happened  ef  A'd 
'a'  sot  ye  thar?  But  belike  ye'd  wush  to  swap  places  now?" 
siz  she,  lookin'  up  slyly. 

"  Ye  lettle  witch  !  "  siz  I,  givin'  her  another  kiss.  "A: 
niver  dre'mt  ye  was  sich  a  slypuss." 

A'  don't  know  axac'ly  how  long  them  dishes  was  a- wash  - 
in' ;  for  A'd  wiped  'em,  ye  see,  an'  A'  niver  was  extry  brisk 
at  that  sort  o'  business.     But  whan  they  was  done  A:  says : 

"An'  now  A've  got  what  A'  come  for,  A'll  e'en  be  goin' 
home  for  til  tell  the  good  news  to  mother.  A'  kin  trust  ye 
with  Bill  for  wan  night,  darlin',  an'  he  won't  be  here,  A' 
allow,  whan  A'  come  to  set  up  wi'  }Te  the  morrow.  An' 
we's'll  have  a  jollier  time  then,  Peggy,  my  love,  for  ye  see 
two's  company,  but  three's  a  crowd." 

"  Wull,  Andy,"  siz  she,  "A'  suppose  you  beeta  be  goin' ; 
though,  dearie  me !  it's  a  sore  night  A'll  hev  on't,  A'll  be 
bound!  But,  thank  goodness!  A'll  soon  be  redd  o'  that 
poky  blatherskite,  Bill.  But,  Andy,  darlin',  do  ye  love  me 
truly?''  siz  she,  lookin'  tander  an'  longin'  like  intil  ma  face. 

"  Deed  an'  double,  A'  do!  ''  siz  I.  "A'll  crost  ma  breast 
to  that  anny  day,  ma  dear.  An'  ef  the  Goodman  spares  us, 
an'  your  dad  is  agrayable,  we's'll  be  wedded  sure  an'  sartin, 
Peggy,''  siz  I. 

"Wull,  Andy,"  siz  she,  "  won't  ye  win'  the  clock  for 
me  afore  ye  go?     She  alluz  runs  down  of  a  Saturday  night." 

Now,  the  old  Dutch  clock  stood  in  the  ind  o'  the  settin' 
room  foment  the  fireplace,  an'  as  Bill  an'  the  Elder  had 
their  backs  to'r'ds  us,  A'  jist  tuk  a  kiss  for  toll  atween  each 
weight  as  A'  wun  'em  up,  an'  an  extra  kiss  for  the  finishin'. 

Bad  cess  til  him  !  Jist  then  that  pesky  Bill  turned  roun' 
an'  caught  us  at  it!  My  crackles!  how  he  stared  an'  glow- 
ered, an'  dropped  his  chops  til  his  mouth  looked  like  a  snller 
door.  Peggy  blushed  redder'n  a  rose,  but  she  niver  flunked, 
but  jist  r'ached  up  an'  gi'  me  a  quiet  kiss  an'  whispered : 


■  AND  RECITATIONS  No.  21.  153 

"  Good  night,  darlin',  an'  don't  ye  forgit  me.  Let  Bill 
glower!  We  haen't  no  cause  to  be  ashamed,  an'  A'  don't 
keer  a  buckie  for  him." 

So  A'  came  for'a'd  an"  shuck  ban's  wi'  Elder  McK'asc,  an' 
bid  him  good  night.  An'  feelin'  so  tiptop,  an'  not  wushin' 
to  be  out  with  Bill,  A'  tho't  A'd  e'en  make  up  with  him, 
seein'  A'  was  ail  right  with  Peggy.  So  A'  says,  "  Good 
night  til  ye,  Bill !  "  an'  belt  out  my  ban'. 

"  My  name  haen't  Bill !  "  says  he.  "Leastways  not  to 
you,"  siz  he,  grumpy  as  a  bear  an'  makin'  no  sign. 

'A  felt  like  fetcbin'  him  a  side-swipe  for  his  ill  manners, 
an'  be  desarved  a  cloutin',  too.  But,  laws-ee!  who'd  look 
for  manners  in  gawky  Bill?  An'  what's  the  use  o'  quarrelin' 
with  sich  as  him,  thinks  I.  Besides,  he's  sore  enough  fretted 
a'ready,  an'  they's  no  use  a-pourin'  water  onadrownded  rat. 
He'll  be  warse  afore  he's  better,  A' 11  lay  a  pretty  penny.  So 
A'  spoke  out : 

"'All  right,  then,  jist  as  ye  plaze.  Good  night,  Wull'em 
— -Mester  Wull'em  Schomberg  Mackinzie!"  siz  I,  an'  left  the 
cabin. 

Mother,  seein'  me  a-comiir  home  so  soon,  looked  up 
from  her  knittin'  an'  shuck  her  head,  thinkin'  all  had  gone 
ajee. 

"  "Wull,  sonny,''  siz  she,  "  Bill  run  ye  out,  did  he?  " 

"Leastways,"  siz  I,  puttin'  on  a  solemn  face,  "A'  left 
him  a-settin'  up  with  Peggy  an'  the  Elder." 

"Ay,  honey,  A'  telled  ye  so  !  "  siz  she.  "It's  jist  as  A' 
opined.      But  ye  would  threap  me  down,   an' " 

"Hold  on,  mommer,''  siz  I,  goin'  up  an'  kissin'  her. 
"  Ye're  barkin'  up  the  wrong  tree  this  time.  Peggy's  ail 
right,  an'  A'm  all  right,  an'  Bill  Mackinzie's  badly  sacked. 
That's  the  long  an'  short  of  it,  an'  I'm  chuck  full  an'  runnin' 
over." 

A'  couldn't  hold  in  no  longer,  an'  jist  swTung  loose,  an' 
danced  a  jig  around  the  cabin,  whustlin'  the  while  "  Haste 
to  the  AVeddin'  "  an'  "Roy's  Wife  of  Aldevalock!  "  An', 
dear  old  mother !  she  was  daft  as  m'self,  an'  fust  cried  an' 
than  laughed,  an'  beat  time  with  her  fut  an'  knittin'  needles, 


154  WERNERS  READINGS 

an'  lilted  away  in  tune  with  my  whustlin'  as  merry  as  a  milk- 
in'  maid. 

"  A  don't  understan'  it,  Andy,"  siz  she,  at  last.  "  Bill's 
folk  all  bragged  that  Peggy  an'  him  war  to  be  wedded,  an' 
they  seemed  so  sartain  an'  sot  up  about  it." 

k'  It's  a  lettle  differ  what  Bill's  folk  say,  mommer,"  siz  I. 
"  They've  missed  it  this  time,  an'  a  miss  is  as  good  as  a  mile. 
It's  best  not  to  praise  a  fair  day  afore  avenin',"  siz  I. 

"  True  enough,  honey,"  siz  she.  "  But  Bill  is  so  well  to 
do,  ye  know,  an'  the  Elder  is  a  canny  soul,  for  all  his  piety; 
an'  the  neighbors  telled  me  that  Bill  allowed  he  was  plumb 
sure  o'  Peggy." 

"  Nothin'  but  talk,  mother,"  siz  I,  "  A'll  cry  an'  no  wool, 
as  the  shoemaker  said  when  he  shore  the  pig.  Manny  a  slip 
'twixt  cup  an'  lip;  an'  Bill's  out  on  Peggy,  though  he  may 
coort  her  dad,  an'  welcome,  for  all  me.  Peggy's  mine, 
mother ;  A'  tell  ye,  Peggy's  mine !  An'  A'm  the  happiest  lad 
as  she's  the  bonniest  lass  in  all  the  land  ! 


JEST  A-THINKIN'  0'  YOU." 


ELLA   HIGGINSON. 

WHUN  tli'  down's  awn  th'  thistle, 
'N'  'ts  purpul  heart's  gawn, 
\N'  'ts  little  silky  needles, 

Goes  a-flirtin'  roun'  th'  lawn; 
Whun  th'  clouds  seems  t'  git  whit'r 

'N'  th'  skies  t'  git  more  blue, 
I  jest  seem  t'  keep  a-thinkin* — 
Jest  a-thinkin' — think 'n' — o'  you. 

Whun  th'  shumac's  turned  t'  crims'n, 
'N'  th'  mapul's  turned  t'  gold, 

'N'  th'  ferns  along  th'  ditchez 
'S  a-gitt'n'  brown  'n'  old; 

Whun  th'  crick'ts  is  a-chirp'n*, 


AND  RECITATIONS  No.  21.  155 

'N'  the  fall-grass  com'n'  new, 
I  jest  mope  aroun,  a-think'n' — 
Jest  a-think'n' — think' n' — o'  you. 

Whun  th'  wil'  grape's  blaz'n'  scarl't, 

'N'  pine  scents  is  awn  th'  breeze, 
'N'  th'  little  sassy  squrrul 

Scoots,  a-squeal'n'  up  th'  trees; 
"Whun  th'  nights  is  washed  with  moonlight, 

'N'  alders  washed  with  dew, 
I  jest  set  aroun',  a-think'n' — 

Jest  a-think'n' — think'n' — o'  yju. 

Whun  th'  hull  woods  seems  a-crackl'n' 

Wi'  th'  burrs  a-fall'n'  down, 
'N'  the  beetles  is  a-boomin', 

'N'  dead  leaves  a-fly'n'  roun', 
I  jest  go  a-loaf'n',  loaf  n', 

Nev'r  car'n'  t'  smoke  or  chew, 
Do'n'  noth'n'  but  loaf'n'  'n'  think'n'— 

Jest  a-think'n' — think'n' — o'  you. 

Whun  th'  fields  is  gitt'n'  green'r 

Wi'  th'  fall  wheat  comin'  up, 
'1ST'  tli'  sweet  rains  is  drippin',  drippin', 

'N'  each  em'ty  acorn-cup; 
Whun  th'  nights  git  long;  'n'  lonesome, 

'N'  I  don'  know  what  t'  do, 
Lordy  !   how  I  keep  a-think'n' — 

Keep  a-think'n' — think'n' — o'  you. 

Whun  I  come  to  think  about  it, 

Don'  much  matter  whun  it  be, 
Whuth'r  it's  a-danc'n'  sunshine 

Or  a-rain'n'  drearily; 
Whuth'r  I'm  a-feel'n'  happy. 

Or  a-feel'n'  sad  'n'  blue, 
Fall  or  summer — I  keep  think'n' — 

Jest  a-think'n' — think'n' — o'  you. 


156  WERNERS  READINGS 


THE  HEART  OF  OLD  HICKORY. 


WILL     ALLEN    DROMGOOLE. 


[From  the  Arena,  by  permission  of  the  Arena  Publishing  Co.] 

Arranged  as  a  monologue  to  he  given  in  newsboy  costume, 
if  so  desired. 

Characters  : 

Little  Skippy,  a  newsboy,  taking  Lis  route  through  the  State 
House  for  the  first  time. 

The  Governor  of  Tennessee,  nicknamed  by  his  political  oppo- 
nents "  Tenderheart. " 

Time  :   Late  in  the  afternoon  of  a  snowy  winter  day. 
Place  :   The  executive  office,  a  richly  furnished  room  with  a 
grate  fire. 

PAPERS!  Papers!  wanter paper,  mister?  Yes?  [Bounds 
forward  as  rapidly  as  a  lame  left  foot  ivill  let  him.']  A 
Banner?  [Halts  midway  the  apartment,  and  slowly  shalces 
his  head,  while  an  expression,  part  jubilance,  part  regret, 
and  altogether  disgust,  crosses  his  face.]  Don't  sell  that  sort, 
mister;  none  uv  our  club  don't.  It's — low-lived.  That's 
about  the  size  on't.  [Edges  nearer  the  glowing  coals  in  the 
open  grate  fire  and  stretches  out  his  hands  to  the  welcome 
blaze.]  Why  do  I  refuse  to  sell  the  Banner?  Shucks! 
'Tain't  no  good.  None  uv  us  likes  it.  Yer  sec,  cully  [very 
respectfully],  yer  see, .it  sez  mean  things,  tells  lies,  yer  know, 
about  a  friend  uv  mine.  [The  lame  foot  is  thrust  danger- 
ously near  the  fire,  shoidders  droop.]  I  may  sit?  Oh,  that's 
good.  [Sits  in  a  big,  easy  deep  armchair  and  gazes  at  the 
fire  for  a  moment  as  if  perfectly  happy.]  What  does  the 
Banner  say  uv  my  friend?  Aw,  sher !  It  called  him  a 
'"''mugwump,''''   an'  it  said  ez  ther  wa'n't  no   backbone  ter 


AND  RECITATIONS  No.  21.  157 

him,  an'  ez  lie  wuz  only  fitten  ter  set  prisoners  loose,  an'  ter 
play  the  fiddle.  An'  it  said  a  lot  about  a  feller  named  Ole 
Poplar — naw,  not  poplar,  cedar,  ash,  wonnut,  Hick'ry — 
that's  it !  Hick'ry, —Ole  Hick'ry.  Andrew  Jackson,  the  boys 
said  it  meant;  an'  it  made  them  orful  mad,  an'  they  won't 
sell  the  nasty  paper.  [Tatters  begin  to  quiver  with  excite- 
ment.^ 

Who  is  my  friend?  {Vaguely,  wonderingly .]  Aw,  he 
ain't  my  friend  perzactly.  He's  Shinny's,  though.  Who's 
Skinny?  [A  flash  of  contempt  appears  in  the  eyes  of  the 
lad.]  Say,  cully  [slowly  and  emphatically],  wher'  wuz  yer 
raised?  Don't  yer  know  Skinny?  [Silence for  a  moment, 
then  a  choking  movement  as  if  struggling  with  emotions. 
Draws  sleeve  across  bundle  of  papers ;  a  tear  fcdls  on  the 
papers.]  lie  wnz  a  newsboy- — -till  yistiddy.  We  buried  uv 
him  yistiddy.  [Momentary  silence.]  This  here  wuz  Shinny's 
route.  I  took  it  yistiddy.  Yer  see  Skinny  didn't  have  eo 
mammy  an'  no  folks,  an'  no  meat  outer  his  bones — that's  why 
we  all  named  him  Skinny.  An'  ther'  wuz  nobody  ter  keep 
keer  uv  him  when  he  wuz  sick,  an'  he  jest  up  an'  died. 
[Gazes  into  the  fire  and  seems  to  forget  where  he  is.]  Who 
was  this  friend  uv  Shinny's?  Why,  the  Gov'ner,  of  course. 
Say!  [Scorn  in  the  eyes.]  Is  ther'  anybody  else  can  pardon 
out  convicts?  Say,  cully,  does  yer  know  the  Gov'ner?  Yer 
do?  an'  yer  wish  ter  know  more  about  Skinny  an' — his 
friends?  [Settles  bach  in  the  chair,  drops  bundle  of  papers 
on  the  rug,  heaves  a  sigh  of  comfort.]  Well,  me  an'  him 
wuz  on  the  prison  route  till — yistiddy.  Least  I  wuz  ther' 
till  yistiddy.  Skinny  tuk  this  route  last  year.  He  begged 
it  fur  mo  when  he — come  ter  quit,  because  I  ben't  ez  strong 
ez  Solermun,  yer  know.  But  'twuz  when  we  wuz  ter  the 
pris'n  route  I  larnt  about  Shinny's  friend. 

First,  ther'  wuz  ole  Jack  Nasby  up  an'  got  parelized,  an' 
wa'n't  no  'count  ter  nobody,  let  'lone  ter  the  State.  "A 
dead  expense,"  the  ward'n  said.  He  suffered  orful,  too,  an' 
so'd  his  wife.  An'  one  day  Skinny  said  he  wuz  goin'  ter 
write  a  pertition  an'  git  all  the  'hslmls  ter  sign  it,  an'  git  the 
Gov'ner  ter  pard'n  old  Nasby  out.     They  all  signed  it — one 


158  WERNERS  READINGS 

nv  the  convic's  writ  it,  but  they  all  told  Skinny  ez  'Wuz  ho 
use,  'cause  he  wouldn't  do  it.  An'  one  day,  don't  yer  think, 
when  ole  Nasby  wuz  layin'  on  the  hospittul  bunk  with  his 
dead  side  kivered  over  with  a  pris'n  blankit,  an'  his  wife 
a-cryin'  beca'se  the  ward'n  wuz  'bleeged  ter  lock  her  out,  the 
Guv'ner  hisse'f  walked  in.  An'  what  yer  reckin  he  done? 
Cried !  What  yer  think  uv  that,  cully?  An'  'lowed  ez  how 
few  folks  wuz  so  bad  et  somebody  didn't  keer  fur  'em;  an' 
then  he  called  the  man's  wife  back,  an'  p'inted  ter  the  half- 
dead  ole  convic',  an'  told  her  ter  "  fetch  him  home."  Did! 
An'  the  nex'  day  if  the  Banner  didn't  tan  him! 

An'  ther'  wuz  a  feller  ther'  been  in  twenty  year,  an'  had 
seventy-nine  more  ahead  uv  him.  An'  one  night  when  ther' 
wa'n't  nobody  thinkin'  uv  it,  he  up  an'  got  erligion.  An'  he 
ain't  no  more  en  got  it,  en  he  wants  ter  git  away  fum  ther'. 
Prayed  fur  it  constant:  "Lord,  let  me  out!  Lord,  let  me 
out ! "  He  couldn't  take  time  ter  cry  an'  pray  'thout  cheat'n' 
the  State,  yer  know,  so  he  jest  cried  an'  prayed  while  he 
worked.      The  other  pris'ners  jest  poked  fun  at  him. 

Say !  Did  yer  heear  'bout  the  big  fire  that  bruk  out  in  the 
pris'n  las'  November,  did  yer?  Well,  that  ther'  convic' 
fetched  thirteen  men  out  on  his  back.  They  wuz  suf'cated, 
yer  know.  He  fetched  the  warden  out,  too,  in  his  arms. 
An'  one  uv  his  arms  wuz  burnt  that  bad  it  had  ter  be  cut  off. 
An'  the  pris'n  doctor  said  he  breathed  fire  inter  his  lungs  or 
somethin'.  An'  the  next  day  the  Gov'ner  pard'ned  uv  him 
out.  I  wuz  ther'  when  the  pard'n  come.  The  warden's 
voice  trim'led  when  he  read  it  ter  the  feller  layin'  bundled 
up  on  his  iron  bunk.  An'  when  he  heerd  it  he  riz  up  in  bed 
an' sez  he  :  "  My  prayers  is  answered;  tell  the  boys."  The 
warden  bent  over  'im  ez  he  dropped  back  an'  shet  his  eyes. 
"What  must  I  tell  the  Gov'ner?"  sez  he.  "  Tell  him,  God 
bless  him."  An'  that  wuz  the  las'  word  he  ever  did  say  top- 
side uv  this  earth.  Whatcher  think  uv  that,  cully?  'Bout 
ez  big  ez  the  Banners  growl,  wa'n't  it? 

But  the  best  uv  all  wuz  about  ole  Bemis.  [Rearranges 
his  tatters.~\  Did  yer  ever  hear  about  ole  Bemis?  Yer  did? 
Well,  yer  see,  Bemis  wuz  a  banker, — a  reg'lar  rich  un.     He 


AND  RECITATIONS  No.  21.  159 

kilt  a  man, — kilt  him  dead,  too, — an'  yer  see,  cully,  'twas 
his  own  son-in-law.  An'  one  cote  went  dead  against  him, 
an'  they  fetched  it  ter  t'other,  an'  that  cote  said  he  mus'  hang, 
too,  an'  they  put  him  in  jail ;  an'  befo'  they  had  the  trial  the 
jailer  looked  fur  a  mob  ter  come  an1  take  him  out  at  night 
an'  hang  him.  He  set  up  late  lookin'  fur  it.  But  stid  uv  a 
mob,  the  jailer  heerd  a  little  pitapat  on  the  steps,  an'  a  little 
rattle  uv  the  door,  an'  when  he  opened  uv  it  ther'  wuz  a  little 
lame  cripple  girl  standin'  ther'  leanin'  on  her  crutches,  a-cryin' 
an'  a-beggin  ter  see  her  pappy.  Truth,  cully!  Atter  that, 
folks  begin  ter  feel  sorry  fur  the  ole  banker,  when  the  jailer'd 
tell  about  the  little  crutch  ez  sounded  up  an'  down  them  jail 
halls  all  day.  The  pris'ners  got  ter  know  it,  an'  ter  wait  fur 
it,  an'  they  named  uv  her  "crippled  angul,"  she  wuz  that 
white  an'  pretty,  with  her  blue  eyes  an'  hair  like  tumbled -up 
sunshine  all  round  her  face.  An'  when  they  had  that  ther' 
las'  trial  uv  ole  Bemis,  lots  uv  meanness  leaked  out  ez  had  been 
done  him,  an'  it  showed  ez  the  pris'ner  wa'n't  so  mightily  ter 
blame  atter  all.  An'  lots  uv  folks  wuz  hopin'  the  ole  man 
'n'd  be  plumb  cleared;  but  the  cote  said  he  mus'  hang,  hang, 
hang.  Did ;  an'  when  it  said  so  the  angul  fell  over  in  her 
pappy's  arms,  an'  her  crutch  rolled  down  an'  lay  ag'inst  the 
judge's  foot,  an'  he  picked  it  up  an'  belt  it  in  his  han'  all  the 
time  he  wuz  sayin'  uv  the  death-sentence.  An'  the  Banner 
said,  "That  wuz  enough  fur  chicken-heart,''  an'  said  ever'- 
body  might  look  fur  a  pard'n  nex'  day.  An'  then  whatcher 
reckin?  What  do  yer  reckin,  cully?  The  nex'  day  down 
come  a  little  yaller-headed  gal  ter  the  jail  a-kerryin'  uv  a 
pard'n.  Whatcher  think  uv  that?  Wuz  that  chicken-heart? 
Naw,  cully,  that  wuz  grit.  Skinny  said  so.  An'  Skinny 
said — he  wuz  alius  hangin'  roun'  the  cap'tul — an'  he  heerd 
the  men  talkin'  'bout  it — an'  they  said  the  little  gal  come  up 
ter  see  the  Gov'ner,  an'  he  wouldn't  see  her  at  first.  But 
she  got  in  at  last,  an'  begged  an'  begged  fur  the  ole  man 
about  ter  hang.  But  the  Gov'ner  wouldn't  lis'n,  till  all't 
once  she  turned  ter  him  an'  sez  she,  "  Have  you  got  a  chile  ! " 
An'  his  eyes  lilt  up  in  a  minute,  and  sez  he  :  "  One,  at  Mount 
Olivet."     That's  the  graveyard,  yer  know.     Then  he  called 


160  WERNERS  READINGS 

his  sec't'ry  man,  an'  whispered  ter  him.  An'  the  man  sez: 
"Is  it  wise?  "  An'  then  the  Gov'ner  stood  up  gran'  like, 
an'  sez  he:  "Hit's  right;  an'  that's  enough."  Wa'n't 
that  bull j,  though?     Wa'n't  it? 

Whatcher  lookin'  at  out  the  winder,  cully?  [After  a  mo- 
ment's silence.]  Say  [acts  ?iestless],  does  the  firelight  hurt 
yer  eyes?  They  looks  like  the  picture  uv  Skinny 's  man. 
Oh,  but  hit's  a  good  picture:  It's  a  man  layin'  in  bed.  Sick 
or  somethin',  I  rcckin.  An'  his  piher's  all  ruffled  up,  an' 
the  kiverlid  all  white  ez  snow.  An'  his  face  has  got  a  kind 
uv  glory  look.  An1  in  one  corner  is  a  big,  big  patch  uv  light. 
'Tain't.  sunshine,  too  soft;  an'  'tain't  moonlight,  too  bright. 
Hit's  jest  light.  AV  plumb  square  in  the  middle  uv  it  is  a 
angul, — -a  gal  angul,  I  reckin — an'  she  has  a  book,  a  gold  un, 
an'  she's  writin'  down  names  in  it.  An'  the  man  in  bed  is 
watchin'  uv  her,  an'  tellin'  uv  her  what  ter  do;  fm  down 
ter  the  bottom  ther'p  some  gol' -writin'.  Skinny  figgered  it 
out  an'  it  said:  "  Write  me  as  one  who  loves  his  fellow -men." 
Ain't  that  scrumptious?  Yer  jest  bet.  I  asked  Skinny  once 
what  it  meant,  an'  he  said  he  didn't  know  fur  plumb  certain, 
but  sez  he,  '•'  I  calls  it  the  Gov'ner,  Skip;  the  Gov'ner  a^' 
the  crippled  angul/'  Alius  boys  alius  called  it  the  Gov'ner. 
Say!  did  yer  ever  see  the  Gov'ner?  Yer  did!  [The  lad 
rises  in  chair  and  then  sinks  lack  with  vehemence  in  accord 
with  surprise.]  Oh,  say  now!  did  yer,  'though?  An'  did 
yer  ever  heer  him  make  a  speech?  Raily  now,  did  yer? 
[Leans  forward,  and  looks  sharply  as  if  he  would  catch  the 
faintest  hint  of  falsehood.]  Skinny  did  once,  when  he  wuz 
norgrated,  yer  know.  An'  yer  bet  he's  gran',  then,  on  them 
norgrat'n  days.  He  jest  up  an'  dares  the  ole  Banner.  An' 
his  speeches  goes  this  er  wTay.  [Sta?ids  with  foot  pressed 
against  the  chair,  the  other  one  resting  on  rugj  one  hand 
clasping  lightly  the  arm  of  the  chair,  while  the  other  is  en- 
thusiastically waved  to  and  fro  as  the  lad  recites  the  "Gov- 
ner 's  "  speech.] 

"Out  of  the  mouths  of  babes  and  sucklings  truth  ever 
comes  pouring.  Listen  to  them  and  follow  what  they  teach. 
The  so-called  'State  Bonds'  are  against  the  letter  and  spirit 


AND  RECITATIONS  No.  21.  161 

of  the  Constitution  of  the  United  States,  which  declares :  ]STo 
State  shall  grant  letters  of  marque  and  reprisal,  coin  money, 
or  emit  bills  of  credit.  State  bonds !  State  bonds  !  I  tell 
you,  friends  and  fellow-citizens,  that  is  the  name  of  the  enemy 
that  is  hammering  upon  that  mighty  platform  upon  which  all 
social,  political,  and  financial  affairs  of  the  country  are 
founded;  the  palladium  of  our  liberties, — the  Constitution  of 
the  United  States. "  [Slides  hack  foot  and  then  slijps  into 
chair.  Lips  twitch  nervously.  Draws  sleeve  across  face 
and  shakes  with  excitement  for  fully  two  minutes.'] 

Say !  yorter  knowed  Skinny.  He  wuz  the  nicest  boy 
yevver  did  see.  He  knowed  ever' thing,  he  did.  I  wisht 
yer  could  see  Skinny's  picture  anyhcw.  It's  over  ter  Hunch- 
back Harry's  house  now.  Skinny  give  the  picture  ter  Harry 
'count  uv  his  not  bein'  able  ter  git  about  much.  He  set  a 
sight  uv  store  by  it,  Skinny  did,  an'  he  didn't  let  it  leave 
him  till  the  las'  minit;  he  jest  willed  it,  yerkno<v,  ter  Hunch- 
back Harry.  "When  he  wuz  a-dyin'  he  turned  ter  me,  an' 
sez  he  :  "  Skip,  hang  the  Gov'ner  so's  I  can  see  him.''  An' 
when  I  done  it,  he  sez,  sorter  smilin',  "Skip!"  Sez  I : 
"Skinny!"  Sez  he:  "The  crippled  angul  has  wiped  all  the 
tears  out  uv  the  Gov'ner's  eyes."  Then  he  fell  back  on  his 
straw  piller  an'  shet  his  eyes,  so ;  an'  after  while  he  opened 
uv  um,  an'  sez  he,  so  soft  yer  jest  could  'a'  heerd  it,  sez  he: 
"Write  me  ez  one  who  loves  his  fellow-men." 

He  had  a  nice  fun'ril,  yer  bet.  Us  newsboys  made  it,  an' 
the  pris'n  chaplin  said  the  snment.  The  flowers  cost  us  boys 
ten  dollars.  Ther'  wuz  a  wreath  made  uv  white  roses,  an' 
right  in  the  middle,  made  out  uv  little  teeny  buds,  wuz  his 
name — "Skinny."  The  flower-man  said  it  wouldn't  do  so, 
when  we  told  him  ter  put  it  ther' ;  but  we  ' lowed -'twuz  our 
money  an'  our  fun'ril,  an'  if  we  couldn't  have  it  our  way  we 
wouldn't  have  it  at  all.  An'  he  said  it  might  hurt  his  folkses' 
feelin's;  but  we  tol'  him  Skinny  didn't  have  no  folks,  an' 
the  wreath's  out  ther'  yet  on  his  grave  this  blessed  minit,  if 
the  snow  ain't  kivered  it  up.  Say,  cully!  don't  yer  be  a- 
cryin'  fur  Skinny.  He's  all  right — the  chaplin  sez  so.  The 
Guv'ner'd  cry   fur  him,  though,   I  bet  yer,   if  he  knowed 


162  WERNER'S  READINGS 

about  the  fun'ril  yistiddy.  MebbeolePop-Hick'rj  wouldn't, 
but  I  bet  the  Gov'ner  would.  [A  sound  of  heavy  foot- steps 
is  heard.']  Whal's  that?  [Starting  up. ~\  The  porter  clo- 
sing up  for  the  night?  [Stands  up,  straightens  himself  out, 
picks  up  his  papers  and  loolis  at  them  ruefully .]  Say!  yer 
wouldn't  want  a  H&pald  f  You  do?  An' what's  my  name? 
Skippy !  'cause  I  don't  skip,  yer  know.  [Grins  as  he  thrusts 
out  lame  foot ;  the  next  moment  looks  at  the  coin  he  receives.] 
Say!  I  can't  change  a  dollar ;  hain't  seen  that  much  money 
since  the  bridge  wuz  burnt.  Xeedn't  mind  the  change? 
[Happy  expression.]  Be  sure  an'  bring  you  to-morrow's 
Herald?  [Stands  upright,  with  a  look  first  of  genuine  won- 
der, then  of  admiration.]  Say!  who  be  you  anyhow?  The 
Governor  of  Tennessee?  [Whistles,  startled,  shambles 
toward  the  door,  half -whispers  "  Skinny  "  and  "  Ole  Pop- 
HicWry"  and  slams  door  to  behind  him.] 


AN  ITALIAN'S  ACCOUNT  OF   GEORGE  WASHINGTON. 


LADIES  an'  gentamen  :  I  stand  here  in  front  befora  you 
to-day  to  tell  you  da  story  of  grreata  man,  Georga 
Wash'ton.  Georga  Wash' ton  was  born  in  ISTew  Yorka  City  a 
long  time  ago.  His  father  was  rich,  but  ver'  respectable,  in 
spite  of  dat;  he  keepa  da  big  Wash'ton  market  neat'd  a  river, 
where  alia  da  Irisha  women  go  everaday  to  bna  da  supplies 
fora  da  whole  week,  an'  carry  it  all  home  ina  greata  biga 
basket,  over  da  Hamilton  Ferry.  Da  Wash'ton  family  live  al- 
ways in  Brookalyn,  in  a  litta  stone  house  on  da  cornera  of  a 
Third  street  an'  da  Fift'  avenue.  Bimeby  da  basaball  men 
wanta  play  ball  in  his  backa  yard,  an'  Mister  Wash'ton  he 
sella  da  hull  bizness  an'  mova  down  to  Wash'ton  Street.  When 
dey  mova  down-town,  Mister  Wash'ton  he  plant  a  lot  o'  trees 
in  front  da  house,  pear  tree,  plum  tree,  prune  tree,  tomato 
tree,  banana  tree  an'  cherra  tree,  so  that  he  can  hava  da  fruit 
to  sell  in  da  market  bimeby. 


AND  RECITATIONS  No.  21.  163 

Onea  day,  when  Georga  was  a  vera  litta  boy,  his  pop  he 
give  him  an  ax,  an'  he  say,  "  Dis  a  vera  good  ax  to  axercise 
wit'  after  school,  choppin'  wood  for  da  mother  to  lighta  da 
fire,"  an'  Georga  he  say,  "Alia  right,  pop,  much  oblige," 
he  was  a  ver'  polita  boy.  Well,  onea  day,  a  long  time  after- 
ward, some  bada  boys  came  along  an'  climb  up  into  da  cherra 
tree  an'  steala  da  cherries.  Little  Georga  he  seea  dem,  an' 
he  taka  da  litta  ax,  an'  he  maka  da  sneak  up  in  da  tree,  an' 
he  give  onea  de  bada  boys  a  hard  whack  on  da  topknot  wi' 
his  ax,  an'  da  boy  he  fall  down  on  da  sidawalk  jis  like  a  deada 
man.  Old  Mister  Wash' ton  he  heara  da  noise,  an'  he  come 
'  out  an'  he  seea  da  boy  layin'  dere,  an'  he  was  vera  much  ex- 
cite, an'  he  say,  "  Who  cuta  down  disa  boy?"  An'  litta 
Georga  he  brace  up  an'  he  say,  "Pop,  I  can  not  chuck  no 
bluff,  I  done  it  wit'  my  litta  ax."  An'  his  pop  was  ver' 
glad  an'  he  give  Georga  onea  penny  for  chewin'-gum,  an'  he 
say,  "  Gooda  boy,  Georga,  it's  a  good  deal  better  to  knock  out 
onea  loafer,  dan  to  chuck  a  hundred  bluffs,  an'  dat  goes,  an' 
don'  forgit  it,  see?  "  Den  da  old  man  he  ring  for  da  patrol 
wagon,  an'  da  cherra-tree  stealer  goes  off  to  da  station-house, 
an'  da  next  day  he  geis  six  years  for  breakin'  da  flagstone  in 
front  of  Wash' ton's  house,  when  he  fell  out  da  cherra  tree. 

Bimeby  Georga  he  grows  up,  an'  join  da  Twenty-third 
regiment  an'  rida  horseba'k  on  Patrick's  day  an'  Fourt'  July, 
an'  wink  at  da  pretty  girls  on  Saturday  after  da  matinee,  an' 
buy  dem  soda  water  an'  candy,  an'  put  on  da  biga  front  alia 
da  time.  Bimeby  his  father  say,  "  Georga  Wash'ton,  junior, 
it's  about  time  you  begin  to  do  some  hustlin'  for  yourself,  I 
can't  afford  to  pay  alia  da  bills  for  you  to  hava  da  fun.  Mya 
biz  is  not  so  good  any  more.  Mister  Fulton  he  starta  da 
market  at  da  Fulton  Ferry  an'  I  losa  da  Brookalyn  customer 
altogether."  An' Georga  say,  " IMever  mind,  pop.  I  hear 
to-day  we  are  goin'  to  hava  da  big  war  an'  fight,  an'  I  hava 
to  go  away  an'  be  a  greata  biga  man,  I'll  be  da  father  of  my 
country,  see?  "  Well,  de  old  man  say,  "  Where  do  I  come 
in,  dat's  what  I.  want  to  know."  An'  Georga  laugh  an'  he 
say,  "  Dat's  all  right,  pop,  you  can  be  da  grandfather  of  our 
country,  see  ?  " 


164  WERNER'S  READINGS 

Well,  Georga  march  away  wit'  da  regiment,  an'  deycrossa 
da  ferry  to  Jersey,  an'  hava  biga  fight  wit'  da  Englishman, 
an'  Georga  was  such  a  gooda  fighter  that  he  knock  out  Gen- 
eral Cornwallis  in  t'reea  rounds,  jus'  lika  Jim  Corbett,  an' 
everaboda  throw  up  da  hat  an'  make  Georga  president  of  da 
hull  country  like  Grove  Cleveland,  only  not  so  mucha.  "Well, 
Georga  Wash'ton  was  elect'  president  five  times;  an'  w'en  he 
got  too  old  to  work  dey  give  him  a  pension,  an'  he  live  till 
his  hair  turn  ver'  white,  an'  his  w'iskers  all  fall  off,  den  he 
die,  an'  alia  da  politish  go  to  his  funeral,  an'  dey  have  a  biga 
time,  an'  bury  him  in  Wall  street  in  front  da  money  factory, 
an'  put  up  da  biga  statue,  jus'  like  him  when  he  was  alive.' 
Now  let  us  givea  da  t'ree  cheers  for  Georga  Wash'ton,  da 
father  of  his  country  an'  evra  place:    Hip,  hip,  hurrah! 


THE  0RTH0D-0X  TEAM. 

FRED    EMERSON    BROOKS. 


T    T  OLD  on,  stranger!      Turn  out  yonder  close   to   the 
il  wall ! 

For  the  road's  rather  narrow  and  I've  got  it  all! 
Whoa,    back,   haw  there,  old    Baptist !     Whoa,    Methodist, 

whoa! 
These  are  oxen  that  need  all  the  road,  you  must  know. 
Yes,  I  drive  without  swearin',  though  strange  it  may    seem, 
For  I'm  drivin',  good  stranger,  my  orthod-ox  team!  " 
Said  the  lumberman  of  Calaveras. 

"  That  Episcopal  ox  is  of  excellent  breed. 
He's  more  noted  for  style  than  he  is  for  his  speed. 
Though  of  delicate  structure,  this  ox  will  not  shirk, 
But  he  never  was  known,  sir,  to  sweat  at  his  work. 
He's  a  good,  pious  ox,  never  losin'  his  way, 
For  he  reads  all  the  signboards,  and  goes  not  astray!  " 
Said  the  lumberman  of   Calaveras. 

"  There's  the  good  Baptist  ox;  he's  hard  shell  to  the  bone;. 
Close  communion  in  diet — he  eats  all  alone! 


AND  RECITATIONS  No.  21.  165 

Shakes  his  head  when  it's  rainin'  and  closes  his  eyes; 
He  hates  to  be  sprinkled,  though  it  comes  from  the  skies ! 
"Why,  he  won't  cross  a  bridge  unless  dragged  by  the  team! 
He'll  go  nowhere,  I  swon,  but  down  into  the  stream!  " 
Said  the  lumberman  of  Calaveras. 

"Presbyterian,  gee!     Congregational,  haw! 
They're  good  stock,  let  me  tell  you,  and  know  how  to  draw! 
They're  so  perfectly  matched,  sir,  that  very  few  folk 
Can  tell  'em  apart  when  they're  out  of  the  yoke; 
But  you  see  a  slight  difference  when  it  is  shown  : 
One  leans  on  his  elders  and  one  stands  alone !  " 
Said  the  lumberman  of  Calaveras. 

"  There's  an  ox  I  term  Israel,  oldest  of  all ; 
Once  he  grazed  in  the  garden  before  Adam's  fall; 
He  went  into  the  ark  at  the  time  of  the  flood, 
And  when  Pharaoh  starved  he  was  chewin'  his  cud ! 
There's  an  ancestry,  sir,  full  of  glory,  no  doubt, 
But  for  gorin*  the  Master  they're  scattered  about!  '' 
Said  the  lumberman  of  Calaveras. 

''  I've  an  ox  over  there  that  tends  strictly  to  '  biz !' 
He's  the  Catholic  ox ;  what  a  monster  he  is ! 
And  he  keeps  growin'  big,  while  he  keeps  growin'  old ! 
And  he  never  lets  go  where  he  once  gets  a  hold ! 
He's  a  strong  one,  you  bet!  why  I  never  yet  spoke 
But  he  started  right  off,  with  his  neck  in  the  yoke!  " 
Said  the  lumberman  of  Calaveras. 

'-■  There's  old  Methodist,  one  of  the  best  on  the  road! 
You'd  suppose,  by  the  fuss,  he  alone  dragged  the  load! 
How  he  pulls  when  I  sing  hallelujah  and  shout ; 
But,  the  worst  of  it  is,  he  keeps  changin'  about ! 
He  was  bought  on  probation  and  works  like  a  top ; 
But  I've  had  him  three  years,  and  suppose  I  must  swop!  " 
Said  the  lumberman  of  Calaveras. 

"  That  suave  Universalist  many  admire; 

Thinks  the  devil's  a  myth  with  his  great  prairie  fire! 


166  WERNER'S  READINGS 

There's  an  Adventist  claimin'  to  have  second  sight; 
If  he  keeps  on  a-guessin'  he'll  guess  the  thing  right! 
And  the  Seventh  Day  Baptist — their  numbers  are  such 
If  they  do  break  the  Sabbath  they  don't  break  it  much!  " 
Said  the  lumberman  of   Calaveras. 

"  Got  a  Spiritualist  ?     Yes,  sir;  I  bought  one  by  chance: 
When  it  comes  to  hard  work  he  goes  off  in  a  trance! 
Nothin'  practical,  sir,  in  a  medium  ox 

When  you  have  to  keep  proddin'  with  rappin's  and  knocks! 
But  I  must  keep  movin'  and  ploddin'  along 
With  my  orthod-ox  team,  or  the  world  will  go  wrong!  " 
Said  the  lumberman  of  Calaveras. 

"  Take  the  road  that  I  came,  and  beware  of  short  cuts! 
You  will  not  lose  tiie  way  if  you  follow  the  ruts. 
I  am  sorry  to  force  you,  my  friend,  to  turn  out; 
But  this  is  the  regular  lumberman's  route ! 
On  the  road  of  life,  stranger,  ray  right  is  supreme ; 
All  the  world  must  turn  out  for  my  orthod-ox  team!  " 
Said  the  lumberman  of  Calaveras. 


BIMI. 

RUDYARD    KIPLING. 

THE  orang-outrang  in  the  big  iron  cage  lashed  to  the 
sheep-pen  began  the  discussion.  The  night  was  sti- 
flingly  hot,  and  as  Hans  Breitmann  and  I  passed  him,  drag- 
ging our  bedding  to  the  fore-peak  of  the  steamer,  he  roused 
himself  and  chattered.  He  had  been  caught  somewhere  in 
the  Malayan  Archipelago,  and  was  going  to  England  to  be  ex- 
hibited. For  four  days  he  had  struggled,  yelled,  and 
wrenched  at  the  heav}T  iron  bars  of  his  prison  without  ceasing, 
and  had  nearly  slain  a  Lascar  incautious  enough  to  come  with- 
in reach  of  the  great  hairy  paw. 

"  It  would  be  well  for  you,  mine  friend,  if  you  was  a 
liddle  seasick,"  said  Hans  Breitmann,  pausing  by  the  cage. 
-'  You  haf  too  much  Ego  in  your  Cosmos." 


AND  RECITATIONS  No.   21.  167 

The  orang-outang's  arm  slid  out  negligently  from  between 
the  bars.  No  one  would  have  believed  that  it  would  make  a 
sudden  snakelike  rush  at  the  German's  breast.  The  thin  silk 
of  the  sleeping-suit  tore  out;  Hans  stepped  back  uncon- 
cernedly, to  pluck  a  banana  from  a  bunch  hanging  close  to  one 
of  the  boats. 

"  Too  much  Ego,"  said  he,  peeling  the  fruit  and  offering  it 
to  the  caged  devil,  who  was  rending  the  silk  to  tatters. 

Then  we  laid  out  our  bedding  in  the  bows  to  catch  any  breeze 
that  the  pace  of  the  ship  might  give  us.  The  sea  was  like 
smoky  oil,  except  where  it  turned  to  fire  under  our  forefoot 
and  whirled  back  into  the  dark  in  smears  of  dull  flame. 
There  was  a  thunder-storm  some  miles  away;  we  could  see 
the  glimmer  of  the  lightning.  Hans  lay  down  by  my  side 
and  lighted  a  good-night  cigar.  This  was  naturally  the  be- 
o-inninw;  of  conversation.  He  owned  a  voice  as  soothing  as 
the  wash  of  the  sea,  and  stores  of  experiences  as  vast  as  the 
sea  itself;  for  his  business  in  life  was  to  wander  up  and  down 
the  world,  collecting  orchids  and  wild  beasts  and  ethnological 
specimens  for  German  and  American  dealers.  I  watched  the 
glowing  end  of  his  cigar  wax  and  wane  in  the  gloom,  as  the 
sentences  rose  and  fell,  till  I  was  nearly  asleep. 

"  Are  you  asleep,''  said  Hans,  "  or  will  you  listen  und  I 
will  tell  you  a  dale  dot  you  shall  not  pelief  ?  " 

"  There's  no  tale  in  the  wide  world  that  I  can't  believe," 
I  said. 

"  If  you  have  learned  pelief  you  liaf  learned  somedings. 
Now  I  shall  try  your  pelief.  Good !  When  I  was  collecting 
dose  liddle  monkeys — it  was  in  '79  or  '80,  und  I  was  in  der 
islands  of  der  Archipelago — over  dere  in  der  dark" — he 
pointed  southward  to  New  Guinea  generally— -"  Ugh !  I 
would  sooner  collect  life  red  devils  than  liddle  monkeys. 
When  dey  do  not  bite  off  your  thumbs  dey  are  always  dying 
from  nostalgia — -home-sick —  for  dey  haf  der  imperfect  soul, 
which  is  midway  arrested  in  defelopment — und  too  much  Ego. 
I  was  dere  for  nearly  a  year,  und  dere  I  found  a  man  dot  was 
called  Bertram  He  was  a  Frenchman,  und  he  was  a  goot 
man-— naturalist  to  der  bone.      Dey  said  he  was   an    escaped 


168  WERNER'S  READINGS 

convict,  but  lie  was  a  naturalist,  und  dot  was  enough  for  me. 
He  would  call  all  her  life  beasts  from  der  forest,  und  dey 
would  come. 

"  Und  dot  man,  who  was  king  of  beasts-tamer  men,  he  had 
in  der  house  shush  such  anoder  as  dot  devil-animal  in  der 
cage — a  great  orang-outang  dot  thought  he  was  a  man.  He 
haf  found  him  when  he  was  a  child — der  orang-outang — und 
he  was  child  und  brother  und  opera  comique  all  round  to 
Bertram  He  had  his  room  in  dot  house — not  a  cage,  but  a 
room — mit  a  bed  und  sheets,  und  he  would  go  to  bed  und  get 
up  in  der  morning  und  smoke  his  cigar  und  eat  his  dinner  mit 
Bertran,  und  walk  mit  him,  hand-in-hand,  which  was  most 
horrible.  I  haf  seen  dot  beast  throw  himself  back  in  his 
chair  und  laugh  when  Bertran  haf  made  fun  of  me.  He  was 
not  a  beast;  he  was  a  man,  und  he  talked  to  Bertran,  und 
Bertran  comprehended,  for  I  have  seen  dem.  Und  he  was 
always  politeful  to  me  except  when  I  talk  too  long  to  Bert- 
ran und  say  nodings  at  all  to  him.  Den  he  would  pull  me 
away,  mit  his  enormous  paws,  shush  as  if  I  was  a  child.  He 
was  not  a  beast,  he  was  a  man.  Dis  I  saw  pefore  I  know  him 
three  months,  und  Bertran  he  haf  saw  de  same ;  und  Bimi, 
der  orang-outang,  haf  understood  us  both,  mit  his  cigar  be- 
tween his  big- dog  teeth  und  der  blue  gum. 

"  I  was  dere  a  year,  dere  und  at  der  oder  islands — some- 
dimes  for  monkeys  und  somedimes  for  butterflies  und  orchits. 
One  time  Bertran  says  to  me  dot  he  will  be  married,  because 
he  haf  found  a  girl  dot  was  goot,  und  he  inquire  if  dis  marry- 
ing idea  was  right.  I  would  not  say,  pecause  it  was  not  me 
dot  was  going  to  be  married.  Den  he  go  off  courting  der 
girl — she  was  a  half-caste  French  girl — very  pretty. 

"  Only  I  say  :  '  Haf  you  thought  of  Bimi?  If  he  pulls  me 
away  when  I  talk  to  you,  what  will  he  do  to  your  wife?  He 
will  pull  her  in  pieces.  If  I  was  you,  Bertran,  I  would  gif 
my  wife  for  wedding  present  der  stuff  figure  of  Bimi.'  By 
dot  time  I  had  learned  somedings  about  der  monkey  peoples. 
'  Shoot  him?  '  says  Bertran.  '  He  is  your  beast,'  I  said;  '  if 
he  was  mine  he  would  be  shot  now.' 

*'  Den  I  felt  at  der  back  of  my  neck  der  fingers  of  Bimi. 


AND  RECITATIONS  No.  SI.  169 

Ugh !  I  tell  you  dot  he  talked  through  dose  fingers.  It  was 
der  dea^-und-duinb  alphabet  all  gomplete.  He  slide  his  hairy 
arm  round  my  neck,  nnd  he  tilt  up  my  chin  und  look  into 
my  face,  shust  to  see  if  I  understood  his  talk  so  well  as  he 
understood  mine. 

"  'See  now  dere,"  says  Bertran,  "  und  you  would  shoot 
him  while  he  is  cuddling  you?     Dot  is  der  Teuton  ingrate !  ' 

"  But  I  knew  dot  I  had  made  Bimi  a  life's  enemy,  pecause 
his  fingers  haf  talked  murder  through  der  back  of  my  neck. 
Next  dime  I  see  Bimi  dere  was  a  pistol  in  my  belt,  und  he 
touch  it  once,  und  I  open  der  breech  to  show  him  it  was 
loaded.  He  haf  seen  der  liddle  monkeys  killed  in  der  woods, 
und  he  understood. 

"  So  Bertran  he  was  married,  und  he  forgot  clean  about 
Bimi,  dot  was  skippin'  alone  on  der  beach.  I  was  see  him 
skip,  nnd  he  took  a  big  bough  und  thrash  der  sand  till  lie  haf 
made  a  great  hole  like  a  grave.  So  I  says  to  Bertran :  '  For 
any  sakes  kill  Bimi.      He  is  mad  mit  der  jealously.' 

"  Bertran  haf  said  :  '  He  is  not  mad  at  all.  He  haf  obey 
und  love  my  wife,  und  if  she  speaks  he  will  get  her  slippers,' 
und  he  looked  at  his  wife  across  der  room.  She  was  a  very 
pretty  girl. 

"Den  I  said  to  him  :  '  Dost  thou  pretend  to  know  mon- 
keys und  dis  beast  clot  is  lashing  himself  mad  upon  der  sands, 
pecause  you  do  not  talk  to  him?  Shoot  him  when  he  comes 
to  der  house,  for  he  haf  der  light  in  his  eyes  dot  means  kill- 
ing— und  killing.' 

"  Bimi  come  to  der  house,  but  dere  was  no  light  in  his 
eyes.  It  was  all  put  away,  cunning — so  cunning — und  he 
fetch  der  girl  her  slippers,  und  Bertran  turn  to  me  und  say : 
'  Dost  thou  know  him,  in  nine  months,  more  dan  I  haf  known 
him  in  twelve  years?  Shall  a  child  stab  his  fader?  I  have 
fed  him,  und  he  was  my  child.  Do  not  speak  this  nonsense 
to  my  wife  or  to  me  any  more.' 

"  Dot  next  day  Bertran  came  to  my  house  to  help  me 
make  some  wood  cases  for  der  specimens,  und  he  tell  me  dot 
he  haf  left  his  wife  a  liddle  while  mit  Bimi  in  der  garden. 
Den  I  finish  my  cases  quick,  und  I  say  :    "  Let  us  go  to  your 


170  WERNER'S  READINGS 

house  und  get  a  trink."     He  laugh   und    say:    'Come   along, 
dry  mans.' 

"  His  wife  was  not  in  her  garden,  und  Bimi  did  not  come 
when  Bertran  called.  Und  his  wife  did.  not  come  when  he 
called,  und  he  knocked  at  her  bedroom  door  und  dot  was 
shut  tight — locked.  Den  he  look  at  me,  und  his  face  was 
white.  I  broke  down  der  door  mit  my  shoulder,  und  der 
thatch  of  der  roof  was  torn  into  a  great  hole,  und  der  sun 
came  in  upon  der  floor.  Haf  you  ever  seen  paper  in  der 
waste-basket,  or  cards  at  whist  on  der  table  scattered?  Here 
was  no  wife  dot  could  be  seen.  I  tell  you  dere  was  nnddings 
in  dot  room  dot  might  be  a  woman.  Dere  was  stuff  on  der 
floor,  und  dot  was  all.  I  looked  at  dese  things  und  I  was  very 
sick;  but  Bertran  looked  a  liddle  longer  at  what  was  upon  der 
floor  und  der  wall",  und  der  hole  in  der  thatch.  Den  he 
pegan  to  laugh,  soft  und  low,  und  I  knew  und  thank  Got  dot 
he  was  mad.  He  nefer  cried,  he  nefer  prayed.  He  stood 
still  in  der  doorway  und  laugh  to  himself. 

Diin  he  said:  'She  haf  locked  herself  in  dis  room,  und  he 
haf  torn  up  der  thatch.  Dot  is  so.  We  will  mend  der  thatch 
und  wait  for  Bimi.      He  will  surely  come. ' 

"  I  tell  you  we  waited  ten  days  in  dot  house  aiter  der  room 
was  made  into  a  room  again,  und  once  or  twice  we  saw  Bimi 
comin'  a  liddle  way  from  der  woods.  He  was  afraid  pecause 
he  haf  done  wrong.  Bertran  called  him  when  he  was  come 
to  look  on  der  tenth  day,  und  Bimi  come  skipping  along  der 
beach  und  making  noises,  mit  a  long  piece  of  black  hair  in 
his  hands,  und  Bimi  come  nearer,  und  Bertran  was  honey- 
sweet  in  his  voice  und  laughed  to  himself.  For  three  days 
he  made  love  to  Bimi,  pecause  Bimi  would  not  let  himself  be 
touched.  Den  Bimi  come  to  dinner  at  der  same  table  mit  us, 
und  der  hair  on  his  hands  was  all  black  und  thick  mit — mit 
what  had  dried  on  his  hands.  Bertran  gave  him  sangaree  till 
Bimi  was  drunk  und  stupid,  und  den — 

Hans  paused  to  puff  at  his  cigar. 

"And  then?" 

"  Und  den  Bertran  kill  him  with  his  hands,  und  I  go  for  a 
walk  upon  der  beach.     It  was  Bertran 's  own  piziness.      When 


WERNERS  READINGS  171 

I  come  back  der  ape  he  was  dead,  und  Bertran  he  was  dying 
abofe  him ;  but  still  he  laughed  a  liddle  und  low,  und  he  was 
quite  content.  Now  you  know  der  formula  of  der  strength 
of  der  orang-outang — it  is  more  as  seven  to  one  in  relation  to 
man.  But  Bertran,  he  haf  killed  Bimi  mit  sooch  dings  as 
Gott  gif  him.      Dot  was  der  mericle." 

"  But  why  in  the  world  didn't  you  help  Bertran,  instead  of 
letting  him  be  killed?"  I  asked. 

"  My  friend,"  said  Hans,  composedly  stretching  himself 
to  slumber,  "  it  was  not  nice  even  to  mineself  dot  I  should 
lif  after  I  had  seen  dot  room  wid  der  hole  in  der  thatch. 
Und  Bertran,  he  was  her  husband.    Goot-night,  und  sleep  well. " 

NO  TELEPHONE  IN  HEAVEN. 


IV  T  OW  I  can  wait  on  baby,"  the  smiling  merchant  said, 
1  \1       As  he  stooped   and   softly  toyed   with  the  golden, 
curly  head. 
"I  want  oo  to  tall  up  mamma,"  came  the  answer,  full  and 

free, 
"Wif  yo'  telephone,  an'  ast  her  when  she's  tummin'  back 
to  me. 

"  Tell  her  I  so  lonesome  'at  I  don't  know  what  to  do, 
An'  papa  cries  so  much  I  dess  he  must  be  lonesome,  too; 
Tell  her  to  turn  to  baby,  tause  at  night  I  dit  so  'fraid, 
"Wif  nobody  here  to  ties  me,  when  de  light  bedins  to  fade. 

"  All  froo  de  day  I  wants  her,  for  my  dolly's  dot  so  tored 
Fum  de  awful  punchin'  Buddy  gave  it  wif  his  little  sword; 
An'  ain't  nobody  to  fix  it  since  mamma  went  away, 
An'  poor  'ittle  lonesome  dolly's  dittin'  thinner  ever'  day." 

"My  child,"   the  merchant  murmured,   as  he  stroked  the 

anxious  brow, 
"  There's  no  telephone  connection  where  your  mother  lives 

at  now." 
"Ain't  no  telephone  in  heaven? "  and  tears  sprang  to  her 

eyes. 
"I  fought  dat  God  had  ever'fing  wif  Him  up  in  de  skies." 


172  WERNER'S  READINGS 


FAIR  HELEN. 


I   WISH  I  were  where  Helen  lies! 
Night  and  day  on  me  she  cries ; 
Oh,  that  I  were  where  Helen  lies 
On  fair  Kirconnell  lea ! 

Cursed  be  the  heart  that  thought  the  thought, 
And  cursed  the  hand  that  fired  the  shot, 

"When  in  my  arms  loved  Helen  dropt, 
And  died  to  succor  me  ! 

0  think  na  that  my  heart  was  sair 

When  she  dropped  down  and  spak  nae  mair! 

1  laid  her  down  wi'  mickle  care" 

On  fair  Kirconnell  lea ! 

As  I  went  down  the  water-side, 
None  but  my  foe  to  be  my  guide, 

None  but  my  foe  to  be  my  guide, 
On  fair  Kirconnell  lea; 

I  lighted  down  my  sword  to  draw, 

I  hacked  him  in  pieces  sma' ; 
I  hacked  him  in  pieces  sma', 

For  her  that  died  for  me. 

O  Helen  fair,  beyond  compare, 

I'll  make  a  garland  of  thy  hair, 
Shall  bind  my  heart  forever  mair 

Until  the  day  I  die ! 

O  that  I  were  where  Helen  lies ! 

Night  and  day  on  me  she  cries ; 
Out  of  my  bed  she  bids  me  rise, 

Says,  "  Haste  and  come  to  me!  " 

O  Helen  fair !     O  Helen  chaste ! 
If  I  were  with  thee  I  were  blest, 


AND  RECITATIONS  No.  21.  173 

Where  thou  lies  low  and  takes  thy  rest, 
On  fair  Kirconnell  lea ! 

I  wish  my  grave  were  growing  green, 

A  winding  sheet  drawn  ower  my  een, 
And  I  in  Helen's  arms  lying, 

On  fair  Kirconnell  lea. 

I  wish  I  were  where  Helen  lies ! 

Night  and  day  on  me  she  cries; 
And  I  am  weary  of  the  skies, 

Since  my  love  died  for  me. 


AUNT  HANNAH'S  LETTER. 


ELSIE   MALONE   MC  COLLUM. 

O  GIRLS,  ha- ha-ha  !  I  have  just  written  another  letter 
for  Aunt  Hannah.  You  know  she  usually  gives  me 
a  few  items  of  news,  then  I  go  ahead  and  write  the  letter, 
as  if  it  were  for  myself;  but  this  time,  I  made  an  exact  copy 
of  all  she  said.  [Laugh.]  I  suppose  it  is  in  the  post-office 
now,  ready  to  start  on  its  journey.  What?  tell  you  what  she 
said?  Well,  all  right,  and  I  will  even  do  this:  If  you'll 
promise  never  again  to  tease  me  about  that  horrid  old  cross- 
eyed Sam  Arnold,  I'll  put  on  this  kerchief,  and  use  grandpa's 
walking  stick,  and  imitate  Aunt  Hannah  through  the  entire 
letter- writing  scene.  Do  you  promise?  Very  well,  remem- 
ber now,  you  are  never,  never  to  mention  his  name  to  me 
again.      [Exit.     Enter  with  kerchief  on  and  dick  in  hand.] 

"  Good  mawnin',  Miss  Julie;  how  you  is  dis  mawnin'? 
You  looks  mighty  peart.  I'm  feelin'  sorter  po'rly,  but  I 
thought  I'd  des  run  over  fur  a  minit,  ter  git  you  fur  ter 
write  a  few  lines  ter  Sary.  [Hand  out  paper  and  pencil.] 
I  fetched  some  paper  an'  a  pencil.  I  didn't  hah  no  develop 
an'  stamp,  but  I  t'ought  you  wouldn't  min'  furnishin'  dat 
much  onct  in  awhile.      [Sit.] 

"Lor'  bress  you,  honey,  don't  ax  me    how    ter   write   it. 


174  WERNER'S  READINGS 

He-he-he !  'Pears  like,  wid  all  yo'  edification,  you  ought 
ter  know  how  to  write  a  letter,  widout  axin'  nobody, — 
specially  a  cullud  pusson.     He-he-he! 

"  Well,  den,  des  say :  Dear  daughter: — Has  you  got  dat 
writ? — I  seats  myse'f  wid  pen  in  han'  ter  drap  you  a  few 
lines — Oh,  you  knows  de  way,  Miss  Julie,  des  go  on  an'  fix 
it  up  dat  away.  You  knows  how  ter  write  a  nice  letter, 
good  as  I  do.  Des  tell  her  we's  all  well,  an'  a-doin'  well  at 
prisen'  time;  but  den  my  ol'  man,  Allen,  he  would  work  out 
in  de  rain,  las'  week,  an'  now  he's  laid  up  wid  de  rhenmatiz, 
— can't  hardly  move  hisse'f,  han'  nur  foot;  an'  my  ol'  back 
is  pretty  nigh  gin  out,  a-lifnn'  him  about  so  much,  'ca'se  you 
know  Lige,  he  can't  lif  much  sence  he  hurt  his  back  at 
Jerry's  house-raisin'  las'  week ;  an'  den  Becky,  she's  got  one 
o'  dem  dare  bone-fellers  on  her  finger  so's  she  has  ter  make 
bread  wid  her  lef  han'  Tell  her  I  wisht  she  could  be  here 
next  week,  'ca'se  our  big  meetin'  commences  den,  an'  our  cir- 
cuit rider  say  he  gwine  ter  hab  de  presidin'  elder  an'  two 
local  preachers  ter  he'p  him.  Oh,  we's  spectin'  a  glorious 
time,  Miss  Julie  !  Tell  her  dat  her  brudder  Joshua  has  dun 
cum  back  f  um  Kansas.  Dey  couldn't  stan'  dem  terrible  sky- 
crones  dey  has  out  dar.  Dey's  all  well,  an'  a-doin'  well  at 
de  prisen'  time,  but  dey  had  ter  sell  dere  beds  an'  cheers  fur 
ter  pay  dere  way  back.  Dey's  all  stayin'  about  wid  de 
relations  now,  fur  a  while,  till  he  gits  him  a  job. 

"  Tell  her  ter  make  has'e  an*  hab  dat  baby's  picter  tuk,  an' 
sen'  me  one.  He-he-he !  Go'  bress  dat  sassy  little 
pascal!  Why,  I  wants  ter  see  him  wuss'n  I  .do  Sary.  -I 
jreck'n  if  dey  sen's  me  his  picter,  I  won't  do  nuf'n  but  des 
'set  down  an'  look  at  it.  He-he-he!  JSTow,  Miss  Julie, 
you  needn'  be  a-lafin'  dar  'hin'  dat  han'kercher.  You  bet- 
ter not  make  fun  o'  po'  ol'  darky,  or  de  Lawd  might  sen' 
jedgment  on  you.  ISTqw,  I  don't  mean  ter  hurt  yo'  feelin', 
honey,  'case  I  lub  you  ,'mos'  like  I  did  yo'  ma,  whin  she  wuz 
a  gal.  Oh,  how  I  lubbed  yo'  ma !  She  was  des  as  pretty 
as  one  o'  dem  lilies  out  dar  in  de  garden.  \_Groa?i.~\  Is  you 
waitin'  fur  sompin'  else,  ter  put  in  dat  letter?  Well,  you's 
done  tol'  her  we's  all  well,  an'  a-doin'  well,  hain't  you?  You 


AND  RECITATIONS  No.  21.  175 

has?  An'  did  you  write  it  down,  'bout  Joshna  an'  his  folks 
comin'  back  fum  Kansas?  Ver'  well;  den  tell  her  we  had 
a  letter  fum  John  las'  week.  He  said  dey  wuz  all  well,  an' 
a-doin'  well,  at  de  prison'  time,  but  his  bes'  workin'  steer 
died  awhile  back,  an'  all  his  crap  is  under  water,  an'  he's 
afeerd  he's  gwine  ter  lose  it  all.  Oh,  pore  John !  [Sigh 
and  groan. ]  Tell  her  if  she  can't  cum  ter  de  meetin'  ter  be 
sho  an'  come  ter  de  picnit  de  Fo'th  o'  July,  'ca'se  we's  power- 
ful anxious  ter  see  her  an'  de  baby.  He-he-he !  When 
I  t'inks  about  dat  baby,  I  can't  hardly  wait.  I  b'lieve  it's 
de  peartest  gran'chil'  I  got. 

"  Well,  Miss  Julie,  des  bring  de  letter  ter  a  close,  I  rec'on. 
I  b'lieve  I  ain't  got  no  mo'  news.  Des  ax  her  ter  'souse  bad 
writin'  an'  spellin',  den  fol'  it  up  an'  put  it  in  one  o'  yo'  de- 
velopes.  Now,  honey,  pas'e  one  o'  yo'  stamps  on  it,  an'  I'll 
trudge  along  an'  take  it  ter  de  pos'-office.  'Fo'  I  goes,  do, 
honey,  you  might  gin  me  a  few  col'  biscuits  for  Allen.  No, 
wait,  I'll  des  sen'  Becky  back  arter  dom,  an'  den  you  can 
put  in  any  o'  de  res'  o'  de  col'  victuals  you  got  on  han'. 
She  can  tote  more'n  I  can.  I'm  much  obleeged  ter  you, 
honey,  fur  de  letter,  an'  one  day  'for'  long,  I'll  come  up  an' 
take  a  flannin  rag  an'  some  ile  an'  tuppentine,  an'  shine  up 
de  funicher  in  yo'  room, — I  will  sho.  [Rise.]  Oh,  my  po' 
ol'  back — I  can't  hardly  git  up  when  I  gits  down.  Good- 
bye, Miss  Julie.  Go'  bress  you,  honey.  Good-bye." 
[Exit.] 

Lesson-Talk. 

The  introduction  is  given  with  merry,  girlish  abandon.  No 
definite  instructions  can  be  given  for  the  rendition  of  the  remain- 
der of  this  recitation,  without  the  fear  of  making  it  mechanical. 
Aunt  Hannah  was  a  sanctimonious  old  negro,  reared  in  slavery. 
She  was  toothless,  her  voice  broken  and  trembling,  her  move- 
ments slow  and  palsied.  She  walked  with  a  large  stick,  and  got 
up  and  down  with  great  difficulty.  She  wore  the  characteristic 
"  head-rag." — a  piece  of  cloth  folded  triangularly,  covering  about 
half  of  the  forehead  and  all  of  the  head  above  the  ears.  It  was 
tied  by  the  outer  corners  at  the  back  of  the  neck.  Negroes  never 
tie  this  "  head -rag  "  under  the  chin.     In  the  impersonation  of 


176  WERNER'S  READINGS 

Aunt  Hannah  don  the  kerchief,  tarn  the  lips  in,  concealing  the 
teeth  (this  gives  the  appearance  of  being  toothless),  take  the 
stick,  which  has  been  previously  placed  conveniently,  hobble  for- 
ward, salute  "Miss  Jnlie,"  and  sit  down  slowly  and  with  seem- 
ing pain,  make  known  the  object  of  your  visit,  and  dictate  your 
letter.  Occasional  sighs  and  groans  may  be  given.  Laugh  in  a 
high,  thin  voice,  bobbing  the  head. 


TOMMY  BROWN. 


L.     C.     HAEDY 

a 


I'M  jest  discouraged,"  said  Mr.  Brown, 
To  his  wife  one  day  as  he  came  from  town ; 
"  'Tain't  no  use  sendin'  our  Tom  to  school; 
He'll  never  be  nothin'  but  jest  a  fool. 
He  studies  like  blazes,  the  teacher  said, 
But  he  can't  get  nothin'  through  his  head; 
The  'xamination  he'll  never  pass — 
He's  the  dullest  boy  in  the  hull  blamed  class.'3 

"Tom  may  be  dull,"  said  Mrs.  Brown, 
"But  he's  jest  the  steadiest  boy  in  town, 
'Tain't  always  the  brightest  that  wins  the  day, 
But  the  ones  that  jest  keep  peggin"  away. 
His  skull  may  be  a  little  thick, 
But  he  can't  be  beat  on  'rithmatic, 
And  any  time  he  would  leave  his  meals 
To  work  at  pulleys  and  pinions  and  wheels. 
He's  built  an  engine  that  runs  by  steam, 
And  a  sawmill  down  by  the  medder  stream; 
I  know  he's  slow,  but  he  ain't  no  fool, 
And  I  tell"  ye  Tommy  is  goin'  to  school." 

So  Mrs.  Brown  she  had  her  say, 

And,  woman-like,  she  carried  the  day. 

Tom  stuck  to  his  books  with  dogged  vim, 

And  mastered  each  with  a  purpose  grim; 

Said  "  I  love  "  and  "  you  love  "  and  "  they  love,"  too, 

With  a  fine  contempt  for  the  loving  crew ; 


AND  RECITATIONS  No.  21.  \Tl 

Thundered  through  rhetoric  dry  and  stale; 
In  Greek  and  Latin  grew  thin  and  pale ; 
With  progress  slow  but  sure  as  fate, 
At  last  poor  Tom  was  a  graduate. 

Then  down  beside  the  meadow  stream 
For  days  and  days  he  would  sit  and  dream, 
And  the  house  was  filled  with  models  and  plans 
Of  engines  and  motors  and  derricks  and  rams; 
And  his  father  gravely  shook  his  head, 
And  to  his  mother  sadly  said : 
"  What  good  did  it  do  ye  to  send  him  to  school? 
I  told  ye  Tom  was  a  tarnal  fool !" 

One  day  the  papers  were  made  to  ring 

With  a  great  invention, — a  wonderful  thing. 

They  called  the  inventor  a  man  of  renown 

And  said  that  his  name  was  Thomas  Brown, 

"  I  allers  told  ye,"  his  father  said, 

"  That  Tom  was  a  genius  born  and  bred, 

And  anybody  could  plainly  see, 

With  half  an  eye,  he  was  jest  like  me." 

"And  I  s'pose,"  said  his  mother,  in  accents  cool, 

"That's  why  ye  called  him  a  tarnal  fool!" 


Over  the  lattice  there  clambered  a  vine. 

Its  tendrils  in  arabesques  tenderly  clung 
To  the  cool  slender  bars  in  the  shade  of  the  pine, 

That  sheltered  us  there  where  the  song-sparrows  sung. 

As  sweet  as  a  rose  in  the  pale  pink  and  blue 
Of  her  thin  fleecy  robe,  with  a  bud  in  her  hair, 

As  fair  as  a  tropic  bloom  fresh  with  the  dew, 
She  mused  by  my  side  in  the  cool  morning  air. 

How  did  it  happen?     I  really  don't  know. 

Her  lips  were  like  rose-buds — sore  tempted,  I  fell; 
"  Oh,  nobody  saw  us!  " — I  started  to  go, 

When  a  wee  voice,—"  I  seen  'oo  an'  I'm  doin'  to  tell!" 


178  WERNERS  READINGS 


OVER  THE  DIVIDE. 


MARION   MANVILLE. 


ME  tell  yer  a  story?    Wal,  yes,  I  s'pose  I  maught  try; 
An'  now,  come  ter  think,  here's  a  true  one,  that's  queerer 
than  one  that's  a  lie; 
It  was  back  in  the  fifties — I  reckon  somewhars  about  '52, — 
An'  lateish-like  in  the  autumn,  an'  trains  had  a  time  gittin'  through. 
Me  and  my  pardner,  Bill  Ed'ards,  had  staked  out  a  claim  in  th' 

gulch, 
An'  although  we  was  somewhat  discouraged,  we  didn't  intend  fer 
ter  squlch. 

Bill  was  th'  han'somest  chap  in  th'  diggin's, — that  is,  on  th'  whole. 
He  come  from  a  high-snuff  old  fam'ly,  an'  had  a  full  roun'  at  th' 

school. 
Wal,  we  was  a-settin'  an'  talkin'  in  sort  o'  a  ramblin'  way, 
Th'  wind  was  a-howliu  an'  wailiu,  an'  Bill  didn't  have  much  to  say. 

We  sort  o'  quit  talkin'  an'  listened,  an'  arter  a  spell  we  both  heard 
Th'  sound  o'  a  cry  in  th'  distance ;  it  maught  be  a  wolf,  er  night- 
bird, 
Er  mountain-panther  a-yellin';  we  often  heard  them  out  o'  door, 
But  somehow  we  felt  'twas  a  som'thin'  we  never'd  heard  thar 
before. 

Bill    jumped — he    was    quick    as    chain-lightnin', — an'    hurriedly 

opened  th'  door, 
When  in  thar  staggered — a  woman !  an'  fell  with  a  moan  ter  th' 

floor. 
A  woman ! — by  jingos !  'twas  so  long  since  we'd  either  seen  one, 
That  if  we'd  a-follered  our  instincts  I  reckon  we'd  both  cut  an'  run. 
But  thar  th'  poor  thing  was  a-lyin',  as  still  as  if  she  was  dead ; 
So  Bill  he  jes'  kneels  down  beside  'er,  an'  lifted  'er  poor  little  head. 


AND  RECITATIONS  NO.  91.  179 

An'  unwound  a  long  fixin'  around  it,  an'  then  we  could  both  see 

'er  face, 
As  purty  an"  sweet  in  'er  feature,  an'  somehow  about  'er  th'  trace 
Of  a  lady, — a  sure-enough  lady;  I  tell  ye  it  guv  us  a  start, 
But  Bill  he  lifts  'er  up  gently,  an'  lays  his  ear  over  'er  heart. 
"  It  beats,  but  it's  faint,"  sez  he  softly.     An'  then  we  made  'er 

a  bed, 
An'  Bill  he  stripped  off  his  jacket  fer  ter  roll  it  up  under  'er  head. 

Wal,  she  come  to,  an'  told  us  her  story,  about  how  th'  train  was 

attacked. 
Ye'd  'a  said  if  ye'd  heard  it  'twas  dreadful,  an'  none  o'  th'  details 

it  lacked. 
Thar's  no  use  tellin'  how  careful  we  searched  fer  th'  rest  o'  th' 

train, 
Fer  all  that  we  know  ter  »this  day  is,  we  jes'  did  our  searchin' 

in  vain. 
But  if  ever  th'  Lord  sent  a  woman  fer  to  be  an  angel  on  earth, 
That  sweet  little  woman,  our  Mary,  was  one  from  th'  hour  o'  'er 

birth. 
We  all  on  us  made  some  acquaintance  with  combs  an'  our  cleanest 

red  shirts, 
But  'twas  plain  ter  be  seen  from  th'  outset  that  Mary  wa'n't  none 

o'  yer  flirts. 

It  didn't  take  heavy  discernment  ter  git  at  th'  lay  o'  th'  ground, 
When  ye  seen  'er  a  settin'  an'  blushin'  whenever  that  Bill  was 

around ; 
An'  as  she  sot  thar  a-lookin'  so  purty,  an'  modest,  an'  sweet, 
It  was  plain  that  Bill  he   jes'   worshipped  th'   stones  that  was 

under  'er  feet. 
Thar  wa'n't  no  use  ter  be  tryin'  ter  git  away  out  o'  th'  camp, 
Fer  the  snow  had  blockaded  th'  mule-trains,  an'  passengers  went 

on  th'  tramp. 

It  seemed  that  th'  best  way  ter  fix  it  was  jes'  ter  git  married  an' 

stay; 
An'  maybe  thar  wa'n't  preparations  in  th'  heart  o'  th'  Rockies 

that  day! 


180  WERNER'S  READINGS 

Thar  wa'n't  no  store  in  the  diggin's,  except  in  th'  grocery  line, 
But  we  made  up  our  minds  that  our  Mary  should  jes'  have  a 

chance  fer  ter  shine. 
So  six  on  us  tramped  inter  Deadwood,  an'  bought  'er  a  rockin'- 

chair, 
An'  a  blue  silk  gown,  an'  some  fixin's  that  women  generally  wear. 

Th'  parson  was  skittish  o'  comin',  but  th'  delegates  fetched  him 

along ; 
If  he  hadn't  a-come  over  quiet,  we'd  a-dragged  him  in  two  hundred 

strong, 
An'  we  gin  'em  a  heartier  blessin'  than  most  people  gits  when  they 

mates, 
An'  we  felt  thar  was  mighty  few  weddin's  done  up  in  sich  style 

in  th'  States. 
Wal,  Bill  he  was  kind  an'  attentive  as  ever  a  man  could  be, 
An'  if  ever  a  woman  was  lovin',  why  that  'ere  woman  was  she. 

An'  once  when  a  murderin'  hoss-thief  was  brought  ter  be  stretched 

ter  a  limb, 
Our  Mary  spoke  up  like  a  gineral,  an'  jes'  stood  right  up  thar 

fer  him. 
She  talked  like  a  meetin'-house  preacher,  only  more  gentle  and  kind, 
An'  every  one  of  us  miners  flopped  over  an'  changed  o'  his  mind. 
Up  spoke  Jack  Collins,  th'   spokesman :    "  Mis'  Ed'ards,  ye  say 

fer  ter  mean 
That  this  'ere  infernal  old  hoss-thief  shall  jes'  git  off  slick  an' 

clean  ?  " 

An'  she  sez,  "  Poor  man,  if  we're  wicked,  God  asks  us  to  only 

repent, 
Fer  'twas  fer  such  sinners  as  we  are  th'  blessed  Saviour  was  sent." 
She  said  that,  she  did, — "  we  sinners."     Why,  that  hoss-thief  he 

went  on  his  knees, 
An'  we  stood  as  dumb  as  our  shovels,  an'  planted  like  so  many 

trees. 
An'  that  rascally  old  hoss-thief  he  says, — "  I  don't  know  much 

about  God, 
But  I've  seen  one  o'  His  angels,  an'  that  shows  that  He  isn't  a 

fraud. 


AND  RECITATIONS  NO.  SI.  181 

"I'm  mean  as  they  make  'em,  Mis'  Ed'ards,  but  I'm  owin'  o'  yer 

from  to-day, 
An'  I  ain't  that  sort  o'  a  rascal  as  ever  forgits  fer  ter  pay." 
Now  Bill,   I'd  fergotten  ter  mention,  had  gone  about  ten  miles 

away, 
Ter  hunt  up  some  chaps  in  th'  diggin's  as  was  owin'  him  somethin 

ter  pay. 
An'  'long  about  ten  in  th'  evenin'  Bill  he  rides  up  ter  th'  door, 
A-lookin'  sorter  pecoolyar,  an'  as  if  thar  was  som'thin'  more. 

An'  Mary  she  runs  fer  to  kiss  him,  an'  Bill  he  catches  'er  tight, 
An'  sez :   "  God  bless  you,  my  Mary,  you've  saved  your  Will's  life, 

dear,  to-night !  " 
An'  while  she  was  lookin'  so  startled,  he  points  ter  a  small  square 

o'  white 
As  was  pinned  up  onter  his  shoulder,  a-showin'  thar  in  plain  sight. 

"  Received  o'  that  angel,  Mis'  Ed'ards,  one  life  on  th'  first  day  o' 

May; 
Herewith  accept  interest,  accordin'  ter  verbal  agreement  ter  pay." 
Th'  gang  had  got  Bill  in  ther'  clutches,  an'  had  a  noose  over  his 

head, 
When  in  rushed  that  very  old  hoss-thief  they'd  all  on  'em  took 

ter  be  dead. 
Wal,  maybe  thar  wasn't  rejoicin',  an'  if  thar  had  been  any  doubt 
As  ter  whether  we'd  acted  with  wisdom, — wal,  I  reckon  that  re- 
ceipt wiped  it  out. 

But  Mary  wa'n't  none  o'  yer  strong  ones,  onless  ye  maught  say 

in  'er  mind, 
An'  that  she  knew  more  n  twenty  o'  any  smart  men  ye  could  find. 
Th'  doctor  come  over  from  Deadwood  when  'twas  all  that  his  life 

was  worth, 
But  all  th'  doctors  together  couldn't  a-kept  'er  here  upon  earth. 

Along  in  th'  gray  o'  one  mornin',  as  quiet  as  ever  ye  see, 

Sez  Bill  at  my  cabin  winder, — "  Pard,  Mary  is  dead!"  sez  he; 

"  Come  over  at  sun-up  ter  th'  cabin."  An'  jes'  as  quiet  an'  still, 


182  WERNER'S  READINGS 

He  turns  an'  walks  back.     An5  it's  awful,  but  that  was  th'  last  o' 

poor  Bill. 
We  went,  bare-heacled  an'  quiet,  an'  knocked  at  th'  low  cabin  door, 
A-chokin  because  o'  th'  silence.     It  never  was  that  way  before. 

Thar  wa'n't  no  answer;  I  tell  you,  I  felt  a  terrible  scare, 
An'  opened  th'  door  jes'  a  little,  and  this  was  the  sight  I  see  thar' — 
Thar  lay  that  beautiful  angel,  with  a  little  dead  babe  on  -er  breast, 
A-lookin  as  peaceful  an'  quiet  as  if  she'd  laid  down  fer  ter  rest; 
An'  thar  with  a  thirty-two  bullet  crashed  inter  his  big,  han'some 

head, 
With  his   arms   around   his   dear   Mary,   Bill   Ed'ards   was   lyin' 

thar — dead ! 

An'  onter  a  small  piece  of  paper  he  was  holdin'  within  his  cold 

hand, 
Was  writ  this  sort  o'  a  message, — -"  Boys,  you  will  all  understand, 
An  bury  th'  three  in  one  coffin.     I  can't  bear,  th'  terrible  load. 
Mary  has  crossed  th'  Division,  an'  I'm — somewhere  upon  th'  long 

road.'' 

Wal,  yonder  a  pine  tree  is  growin',  an'  'a-fore  it  began  ter  git  dark, 
We  cut  a  piece  out  of  its  south  side,  an'  onter  that  place  put  a  mark 
O'  a  cross ;  an'  beneath  it,  a-lyin'  thar  side  by  side, 
Is  Bill,  an'  Mary,  an'  Baby,  gone  over  th'  Big  Divide. 


RISE  UP  EARLY  IN  DE  MAWNIN'. 


PAUL  LAURENCE  DUNBAR. 


1 1  T^\E  worF  is  gittin'  better,  en  de  worl'  is  gittin'  wuss." 

-L^  Dat's  de  way  de  people  talk  it  while  dey  frolic  en  dey  fuss ; 
But  I  tellin'  you,  my  brudder,  dat  it's  good  enough  fer  us ; 
So,  rise  up  early  in  de  mawnin' ! 

In  de  spring  we  gits  de  roses,  en  de  seed  is  clim'in'  high 
En  hintin'  'bout  de  harvest  dat's  a-comin'  by  en  by; 
En  de  rainbow  like  a  ribbon  is  a-runnin'  roun'  de  sky; 
So,  rise  up  early  in  de  mawnin' ! 


AND  RECITATIONS  NO.  81.  183 

In  de  winter,  when  de  snowflake  on  de  bitin'  blizzard  rides, 
De  smoke-house  pile  wid  plenty  till  it  bulgin'  at  de  sides ! 
En  we  warmin'  at  de  fireplace  dat  Providence  perwides ; 
So,  rise  up  early  in  de  mawnin'  ! 

De  way  ter  do,  my  brudder,  is  ter  struggle  'gin  de  wrong, 
Ter  make  de  worl'  feel  happy,  kase  it  rollin'  you  along, 
Ter  keep  de  heart  a-beatin'  ter  a  hallelulia  song; 
So,  rise  up  early  in  de  mawnin' ! 


"  SENCE  SALLY'S  BEEN  TO  EUROPE. 


HERBERT  LAIGHT. 


SENCE  Sally's  been  to  Europe  and  studied  singin'  there, 
She's  a  regular  tip-topper — so  the  critics  all  declare, — 
An'  she  sings  in  all  them  op'ras,  an'  she  warbles  an'  she  trills, 
An'  the  house  is  always  crowded  when  her  name  is  on  the  bills. 

I  went  one  night  to  hear  her — I  thought'd  be  a  treat. 
Somehow,  if  didn't  seem  to  me  as  though  'twas  half  as.sweet 
As  when  she  used  to  sing  up  home,  afore  she  went  away, 
Though  she   didn't  know  much  music  then,  and   she  didn't  get 
no  pay. 

An'  along  with  all  the  rest  of  it,  she's  got  a  foreign  name, 
Fur  without  it,  so  the  folks  say,  she'd  never  be  known  to  fame ; 
But  the  season's  nearly  over — she'll  soon  be  back  again, 
An'  that'll  be  forgotten, — she'll  be  plain  "  Sally  "  then. 

An'  she'll  sit  down  to  the  organ  in  the  cozy  old  front  room, 
An'  like  the  sun  arisin'  she'll  drive  away  the  gloom 
That  always  gathers  round  the  house  when  Sally  isn't  near, 
An'  she'll  sing  to  me  some  old-time  songs,  the  kind  I  like  to  hear. 


184  WERNER'S  READINGS 


THIS  IS  APRIL. 


FRANK    L.    STANTON. 


FELLERS,  this  is  April — know  it  by  the  breeze 
Caperin'  round  an'  rumplin'  the  ringlets  o'  the  trees 
Know  it  by  my  wishin'  for  the  woods  an'  streams — 
All  day  long  I'm  fishin' — ketch  'em  in  my  dreams ! 

Fellers,  this  is  April — sunny,  soft  an'  sweet; 
April  from  her  golden  hair  to  lily-slippered  feet ! 
Like  a  country  maiden,  rosy-cheeked  she  trips, 
April  in  her  bright  eyes  an'  April  on  her  lips ! 

Fellers,  this  is  April — get  out  in  the  air ! 
Feel  her  swift,  sweet  fingers  tumblin'  of  your  hair ; 
Hear  her  birds  a-singin',  while  the  world  caressed 
To  her  lips  is  clingin',  dreamin'  on  her  breast ! 

Fellers,  this  is  April,  in  her  cap  an'  curls ; 
Seems  to  me  you'd  know  it  by  the  red  lips  o'  the  girls. 
Huntin'  wild  flowers  with  'em !     May  is  sweet  to  see, 
But  April  an'  a  violet  is  joy  enough  for  me ! 


WHEN  JIM  WAS  DEAD. 


FRANK  L.  STANTON. 


WHEN  Jim  was  dead, 
"  Hit  served  him  right,"  the  nabers  said. 
An'  'bused  him  fer  the  life  he'd  led, 
An'  him  a-lyin'  thar  at  rest 
With  not  a  rose  upon  his  breast ! 
Ah !  many  cruel  words  they  said, 
When  Jim  was   dead. 


AND  RECITATIONS  NO.  SI.  185 

"  Jes'  killed  himself."     "  Too  mean  ter  live." 
They  didn't  have  one  word  ter  give 
Of  comfort  as  they  hovered  near 
An'  gazed  on  Jim  a-lyin'  there. 
"  Thar  ain't  no  use  ter  talk,"  they  said, 
"  He's  better  dead  !  " 

But  suddenly  the  room  growed  still, 
While  God's  white  sunshine  seemed  ter  fill 
The  dark  place  with  a  gleam  of  life, 
An'  o'er  the  dead  she  bent — Jim's  wife ! 
An'  with  her  lips  close — close  to  his, 
As  tho'  he  knew  an'  felt  the  kiss, 
She  sobbed — a  touchin'  sight  ter  see — 
"  Ah !  Jim  was  always  good  ter  me." 

I  tell  you  when  that  cum  ter  light 
It  kinder  set  the  dead  man  right ; 
An'  'round  the  weepin'  woman  they 
Throwed  kindly  arms  of  love  that  day, 
An'  mingled  with  her  own  they  shed 
The  tenderest  tears — when  Jim  was  dead. 


THAT  SETTLED  IT. 


I  WAS  alone  on  the  back  veranda  of  a  Georgia  hotel  when  I 
hear  the  cook  call : 

"  Julius,  I  want  yo'  to  kerry  dis  yere  note  down  to  Mary  Ann 
Williams,  an'  gib  it  to  her  on  de  sly." 

"  Doan'  let  her  f adder  see  it?" 

"  No." 

"  Doan'  let  her  mudder  see  it  ?  " 

"  No." 

"  Doan'  let  her  brudder  Jim  see  it  ? " 

"  No.     Yo'  spook  around  dar  till  nobody  sees  you." 

"What's  in  de  note?"  asked  Julius. 

"  Yo'  nebber  mind  dat.  Dat's  my  bizness.  Yo'  jes  go  'long, 
an'  doan'  stop  on  de  way." 


-  186  WERNER'S  READINGS 

"Axin'  Mary  Ann  to  dun  marry  ye?"  quizzed  the  boy. 

"Hu!  What  yo'  talkin'  "bout?  Boy,  I'll  riz  a  big  fuss  wid 
yo'  if  yo'  git  too  smart !  " 

"  Wall,  I  wanted  to  dun  tole  yo*  sumthin","  answered  Julius. 

"  Yo'  doan'  know  nuffinV 

"Yes,  I  do." 

"  What  yo'  know  ?  " 

"  I  dun  see  Sam  Flowers  an'  Mary  Ann  Williams  gittin'  mar  d 
at  ten  o'clock  dis  mawnin'  by  Elder  Comstock ! '"' 

"  Shoo !  " 

"  It's  dun  true." 

"  Yo'  seed  all  dat  ?  " 

"  Sartin'." 

"An'  she  dun  mar'd  to  Sam?" 

"  Fur    shure." 

"  Den  dat  settles  it.  Gin  me  back  dat  note.  Dat  was  a  pre- 
posishun  to  dat  gal  to  dun  affiliate  her  affexuns  wid  de  undersigned 
fur  de  term  of  her  nateral  life;  but,  if  she's  had  de  consanguinity 
to  pick  up  wid  such  a  nigger  as  dat  Sam  Flowers,  I  withdraw  de 
moshun  an'  lays  de  subject  on  de  table.  Boy,  yo'  git  dat  odder 
ham  out  of  de  sto'-house,  an'  doan'  be  all  day,  neider !  " 


MY  PA. 


MARION    SHORT. 


MY  Pa's  the  bestest,  dearest  pa 
'At    lives    'ist    anywhere; 
When  Mary  tucks  me  in  at  night 
He  hollers  from  the  stair : — 


"Oh,  where's  Pa's  onliest  little  girl? 

She's  lost  here  somewhere  round !  " 
An'  'nen  I  cover  up  my  head 

An'  'tend  I'm  sleepin'  sound. 


AND  RECITATIONS  NO.  21.  187 

An'  'nen  he  hunts  all  round  the  room 

Until  he  finds  me  there, 
An'  growls  air  laughs  an'  tickles  me, 

And  I  'ist  grab  his  hair. 

An'  tell  him  take  me  on  his  lap 

Or  else  I  won't  leg'  go, 
An'  'nen  Ma  says,  "  She'll  catch  a  cold ! " 

But  Pa,  he  says  "  Shaw,  no !  " 

He  tells  me  "  pigs  to  market," 

How  little  calves  go  "'  moo  !  " 
An'  rides  me  on  his  foot  awhile — 

An'  I  fall  off,  I  do. 

Sometimes  I  play  I'm  gone,  and  hide 

Behind  the  big  armchair, 
And  daresn't  peek  because  my  Pa 

Is  turned  into  a  bear. 

But  bear  don't  ever  scratch  my  face 

Nor  catch  and  eat  me  raw, 
"Cause  when  I'm  scared  and  holler  out 

Pa  turns  back  into  Pa. 


An'  last  night  when  the  rain  came  down 

So  hard  it  "most  came  froo, 
Pa  said,  "  Ist  hear  it  smack  the  roof, 

But  it  can't  get  to  you  !  " 

An'  'nen  me  listened  'ist  as  still; 

An'  'nen  first  thing  I  know 
It's  morning  an'  I  been  to  sleep, 

Like  all  eood  childrens  go. 


188  WERNER'S  READINGS 

FRONTIER  PICTURE. 


EDWARD   SINGER. 


I    BUNKED    with  Bill,  I  et  with  Bill— I  flew  along  the  track 
With  Bill  when  twenty  soldiers  was  a-comin'  at  our  back! 
I  took  the  stand  an'  swore  for  Bill,  an'  proved  an  alibi, 
An'  swore  he  never  knifed  the  "Kid,"  an'  wasn't  that  a  lie ! 
An'  now  he's  lying  here  beside 

The  dusty  cattle  bars, 
A-starin'  up,  but  never  sees 
The  twinkle  of  the  stars ! 

We  shook  hands  half  a  hundred  times  an'  swore  to  God  we'd  stick ! 
He  saved  me  in  a  poker  game;  I  missed  when  he  was  sick; 
We've  suffered  in  the  same  old  shack  with  not  a  bite  to  eat, 
And  nothin'  but  a  sun  o'  blood  to  mock  us  with  her  heat ! 
An'  now  there's  blood  across  his  face, 

An'  somethin's  in  the  air — 
The  beller  of  the  cattle  sounds 
So  lonesome  over  there ! 

Old  Bill,  who'd  ever  said  back  there  when  me  and  you  was  pards 
A-roundin'  up  the  herd  by  day,  at  night  a-playin'  cards, 
That  me  an'  you  'ud  disagree  an'  friendship  have  to  stop ! 
We  didn't  think  in  them  days  I  was  quickest  on  the  drop ! 
Old  pard,  I'll  never  see  that  gal 

Er  look  into  her  eyes, 
But  what  I'll  see  these  eyes  o'  yours 
A-starin'  at  the  skies ! 


WEN  MA'S  AWAY. 


JOHN  TRACY  JONES. 


w 


'EN  ma's  away  it  seems  ez  though 
Th'  sky  gits  dark  an'  folks  mus'  know 
'At  sump'n's  wrong;  an'  'nen  it's  chill 


AND  RECITATIONS  NO.  21.  189 

An'  dreary  home — th'  house  is  still 
An'  creepy  like — 

Wen  ma's  away. 
Wen  ma's  away  they  ain't  no  fun; 
I  jes'  set  roun'  an'  can't  eat  none, 
An'  feel  my  heart  begin  to  sink 
At  all  th'  accerdents  I  think 
Hez  happened  shore — 

Wen  ma's  away. 
Wen  ma's  away  up  ter  that  place 
Where  nary  angel's  got  er  face 
Ez  kind  ez  her's ;  I  b'lieve  I'll  die 
An'  foller  her,  cuz  I  can't  try 
An'  live  alone — 

Wen  ma's  away. 


OLD  BOYS  IN  THE  DANCE. 


FRANK  I,.  STANTON. 


IT  sorter  sets  me  thinkin'  that  I've  got  another  chance — 
To  see  the  old-time  fellers  goin'  roun'  yit,  in  the  dance ! 
Ain't  a  youngster  that  kin  beat  'em ! — when  I  hear  the  fiddle  play, 
An'  see  'em  swing  the  old  girls,  I  jest  holler  out  "  Hooray ! " 
I  clean  fergit  I'm  sixty — I  want  to  jine  the  crowd 
That's  movin'  to  the  music  of  them  fiddles  singin'  loud ! 
I  want  to  be  one  actor  in  that  halleluia  show, 
An'  swing  once  more  the  sweetheart  that  I  danced  with  long  ago ! 
To  think  I'm  still  a  youngster  in  the  reel-roun'  with  the  girls — 
Fergit  the  gray  hair  glimmerin',  feel  the  kiss  of  golden  curls ! 
Then  I'm  dancin'  down  my  troubles — then  I'm  laughin'  'em  away, 
An'  old  December's  singin'  of  a  love-song  to  the  May ! 
Oh,  thar's  life  still  in  the  old  boys ! — jest  tune  the  fiddle  right, 
An'  they'll  all  stay  by  the  music  till  the  pale  stars  say  "Good-night," 
An'  the  big  Sun  says  "Good-mornin' !" — Oh,  it's  then  I  want  a 

chance 
To  swing  the  old-time  sweethearts,  with  the  old  boys,  in  the  dance ! 


190  WERNER'S  READINGS 


AT  AUNTY'S  HOUSE. 


JAMES    WHITCOMB    RILEY. 


ONE  time  when  we's  at  aunty's  house 
"Way  in  the  country — where 
They's  ist  but  woods,  an'  pigs,  an7  cows, 

An'  all  outdoors  an'  air ! 
An'  orchurd-swing,  an'  churry-trees, 
An'  churries  in  'em  !    Yes,  an'  these 
Here  red-head  birds  steal  all  they  please 

An'  tetch  'em  ef  you  dare  ! 
W'y  wunst,  one  time  when  we  wuz  there, 

We  et  out  on  the  porch ! 

Wite  where  the  cellar-door  wuz  shut 

The  table  wuz ;  an'  I 
Let  aunty  set  by  me  an'  cut 

My  wittles  up — an'  pie. 
'Tuz  awful  funny !     I  could  see 
The  red-heads  in  the  churry-tree; 
An'  bee-hives,  where  you  got  to  be 

So  keerful  goin'  by — 
An'  comp'ny  there  an'  all !  an'  we — 

We  et  out  on  the  porch  ! 

An' — I  ist  et  p'surves  an'  things 

'At  ma  don't  'low  me  to, 
An'  chickum  gizzurds  (don't  like  wings 

Like  parunts   does,   do   you?) 
An'  all  the  time  the  wind  blowed  there 
An'  I  could  feel  it  in  my  hair, 
An'  ist  smell  clover  ever'where ! 

An'  a  old  red-head  flew 
Purt'  nigh  wite  over  my  high-chair, 

When  we  et  out  on  the  porch! 


AND  RECITATIONS  NO.  21.  191 

PONCHUS  PILUT. 


JAMES    WHITCOMB   RILEY. 


PONCHUS  PILUT  ust  to  be 
1st  a  Slave,  an'  now  he's  free. 
Slaves  wnz  on'y  ist  before 
The  War  wuz — an'  ain't  no  more. 

He  works  on  our  place  fer  us, — 
An'  comes  here — sometimes  he  does. 
He  shocks  corn  an'  shucks  it. — An' 
He  makes  hominy  "  by  hair  !" — 

Wunst  he  bringed  us  some,  one  trip, 
Tied  up  in  a  piller-slip : 
Pa  says,  when  Ma  cooked  it,  "  My ! 
This-here's  gooder  n  you  buy !  " 

Ponchus  pats  fer  me  an  sings ; 
An'  he  says  most  funny  things ! 
Ponchus  calls  a  dish  a  "  deesh  " — 
Yes,  an'  he  calls  fishes  "  feesh  "  ! 

When  Ma  want  him  eat  wiv  us 
He  says,  "  'Skuse  me — 'deed  you  mus' 
Ponchus  know'  good  manners,  Miss. — 
He  ain'  eat  wlier  White-folks  is !  " 

'Lindy  takes  his  dinner  out 
Wrier'  he's  workin' — roun'  about. — 
Wunst  he  et  his  dinner  spread 
In  our  ole  wheel-borry-bed. 

Ponchus  Pilut  says  "  'at's  not 
His  right  name, — an'  done  fergot 
What  his  sho'-'nuff  name  is  now — - 
An'  don'  matter  none  nohow ! " 


19?  WERNER'S  READINGS 

Yes,  an'  Ponchus  he'ps  Pa,  too, 
When  our  butcherin's  to  do, 
An'  scalds  hogs — an'  says,  "  Take  care 
'Bout  it,  er  you'll  set  the  hair ! " 

Yes,  an'  out  in  our  back-yard 
He  he'ps  'Lindy  rendur  lard; 
An',  wite  in  the  fire  there,  he 
Roast'  a  pigtail  wunst  fer  me. — 

An'  ist  nen  th'  ole  tavurn-bell 
Rung,  down-town,  an'  he  says,  "  Well  != 
Hear  dat !     Lan'  o'  Caanan,  Son, 
Ain't  dat  bell  say  '  Pigtail  done ! ' 
— (  Pigtail  done ! 
Go  call  Son  ! — 
Tell  dat 
Chile  dat 
Pigtail  done  ! '  " 


